


Two shores of the lake

by Lumeriel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, Finarfin doesn't have a clue, Friends to Lovers, Fëanor have too many children, Gay Sex, Idril's learning to cook, Incest, Insanity, M/M, Politics, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 138,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15693996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: Once again, the families of Fëanor and Fingolfin live separated by a lake.After being reborn, both families find a way to live together - especially Fëanor and Fingolfin. But there is something else growing between them..." I'm sorry."Fingolfin's voice stopped him when he opened the door. He did not turn around."Why would you?" Fëanor shrugged. "We have never been able to synchronize our feelings: this time it does not have to be different. We will learn to live with it. Once again."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nemmireth (OFC): water's jewel.

Nemmireth sat up straight, untying her husband's arm while arranging the dress. Maglor frowned at the change in her attitude.  
"Good evening" greeted the newcomer, leaving the bag behind the door before moving towards the dining room. "Please tell me you did not leave Curufinwë to cook."  
Nemmireth did not dare raise her eyebrows in surprise at the way he pronounced his brother-in-law's name before remembering that her father-in-law had no chance to learn how the names of his children would change.  
"Maedhros and Fingon are cooking", informed Maglor calmly. "Curufin is in the workshop."  
"Still? And, why is Fingon helping your brother? He does not even know how to comb his hair alone."  
"I'm certain that cooking meat with potatoes is nothing after having ruled the Noldor, faced a dragon, rescued his cousin from Thangorodrim and fought balrogs."  
"Are you going to write a ballad?", Fëanor asked, with a sour tone.  
Maglor watched him silently, not moving. Finally, Fëanor clicked his tongue and went out again.  
"Why did you do that?" Nemmireth asked. "Don't look at me like that, Maglor Fëanorion: you provoked him. You told him those things on purpose."  
"Sometimes we have to remember him the truth. He uses to forget it easily, you know?"

__//______//_______//________//________//__

Fingolfin stopped with his hands in his pockets, watching the elf sitting on the edge of the dock. With a sigh, he started walking in his direction and stopped beside him.  
"You live on the other side of the lake, remember?"  
"I can see my house from here, so - yes, I remember it".  
"Then, why don’t you stop coming to my side every night?"  
"It's -an exchange", shrugged Fëanor and threw another stone into the lake. The rock drew circles until it almost reached the other shore. "Fingon spends all the time on my side, so I come to take his place."

Fingolfin pouted and sat down next to him, legs crossed.

"Unless you consider that my son is worth several members of your household, I don't see how it can be considered a fair exchange."  
"Sorry?"  
"I already have Celebrimbor and Celegorm living in my house. Caranthir and Finrod moved into Turgon's room until the wedding. And I have a feeling that when Finrod marries, I'll stay with your son as a tenant."  
"All right. Now repeat it with more feeling", proposed Fëanor, observing him. "As if you really worried."  
"I don’t have your histrionic ability: believe it or not, I did not rehearse in front of the mirror how to make Father feel guilty".  
"Are you telling me that martyr's expression is natural?" The eldest was shocked.

Fingolfin pushed him by the shoulder and both burst into laughter.

"Now, really", said Fingolfin after a while, "what happened this time?"

Fëanor pretended to concentrate on the still waters, without answering. His brother observed him out of the corner of his eye and hit his shoulder with his. Only when he had repeated the gesture about three times, Fëanor sighed.

"I may have made some comment about your eldest son's lack of skills."  
"Nothing that should surprise me coming from the progenitor of several geniuses", mocked Fingolfin. "What I don’t understand is how that threw you to my bank once more."  
"Maybe Maglor has given me a history lesson."  
"Ah."  
"Which was much more impressive because he did it in front of his wife. Did you see that girl well? I have the impression that she could break at some point ..."  
"I remember her perfectly: pretty, sweet green eyes, golden freckles ... very good with the bow ... she gets a dimple here when she smiles."

Fëanor turned to observe with a raised eyebrow how his younger brother was touching a point next to his mouth.

"I do not see how that served to face the armies of Morgoth. On the other hand, what the hell were you doing looking at my daughter-in-law's dimples?"  
"She laughs often and, you may doubt it, but she is a very good fighter. She protected Himring once when Maedhros was in Hithlum. Her only fault is that she sings horrible; but she makes up for it with dancing. And with the dimple. Everyone loves people with dimples."  
"You keep saying same stupid things. Anyone would think that being High King would have put some intelligence in that head of yours."  
"Anyone would think that at this point you would have learned to hold your tongue and not provoke some of your children."  
"Yes, anyone would think." He threw another stone to the lake. "You're right: everyone loves people with dimples. And in any case, one cannot choose who their children marry."  
"Ah - I don't agree with that; but it takes us back to Fingon."  
"And Maedhros."  
"And Maedhros." Fingolfin nodded. "We would both have wanted a much less complicated life for our children."  
"One that did not include wars, torture, exile, death - kneeling in front of Manwë to request that he allow them to marry publicly."  
"Or listen to a sermon by Finarfin. Do you have any idea how maddening can be to hear him speak with that accent, and that calmness, for hours?"  
"No", denied Fëanor with an expression of horror. "Luckily I never enjoyed it."  
"Of course: I had him whole for me."

They laughed again for a while.  
"For the record", began Fëanor, "I do not complain about the relationship between Fingon and Maedhros. He is a good boy and he makes my son happy. It is just - it is the habit, you know?"  
"I know. I threw Celegorm off the first time I found him in my house. Uh - I didn't kick Caranthir out because the boy barely speaks and is very good at taking care of children."  
"Do you have kids?"  
"When Turgon comes to visit, he brings the twins. How the hell did it occur to him to have children again? Twins! Did not anyone explain him that's hereditary in our family?"  
"I suppose not."

Once again they were silent.  
Fingolfin allowed himself to reflect on how easy it was now for them to spend time together, just sitting next to each other watching the lake. Of course that was the product of Mandos forcing them to fix their differences in the Timeless Halls. They had thousands of years for it.

"Do you remember when we stole the boat?" Fëanor said with a mischievous smile.  
"You stole the boat. I was three feet: I couldn't steal a boat."  
"You were the one with the idea of taking one of the telerin boats."  
"You were the adult: you were supposed to have common sense."  
"Oh! You wanted to see the stars in Tol Eressea!"  
"I also wanted to explore Araman and fly in an eagle!" As Fëanor observed him raising an eyebrow, Fingolfin tightened his lips before uttering a slight grunt. "Don’t. Say. It."  
"Well, anyway, I took all the reprimands."  
"Excuse me? I was locked in my room for a week. They brought me food on a tray!"  
"They not only accused me of putting you in danger; but of having convinced you to blame yourself."  
"I said it had been my idea" admitted Fingolfin. "Who ...?"  
"Father. He said it was embarrassing to convince a child to carry the blame for my actions. As if it was possible to force you to do something at that time."  
"Actually, you had it quite simple: whatever you asked of me, I would have done it." 

This time, silence was longer, heavier. Fingolfin was beginning to regret what was said when Fëanor took the lead.

"We need a boat."  
"Seriously?" His brother opened his eyes a lot, indicating the boat moored a few meters away from them.  
"That is not a boat: it is a flagship", said the elder. "We would need a whole crew to navigate it! I mean a rowboat, small -only for two. It would be good for us to escape from all of them once in a while. And swim in the middle of the lake. The two of us alone."  
"We can swim in the lake whenever we want. And if you want a boat so much, get one and put it on your side."  
"There is not a dock on my side."  
"Tell Curufin to build it."  
"That - is a joke, right?"  
"It depends. Are you laughing?"  
"Absolutely."  
"You have no sense of humor."  
"No, what I have is a sense of survival. Curufin cannot 'build' things. Turgon builds things - cities."  
"And Finrod. Finrod also builds cities. Only they do it at different levels. But Curufin is a genius: he can with a pier."  
"Do you want to kill me? It is part of an elaborate plan in which you will not appear connected to my murder, it is not?"  
"Nope. I would enjoy more if people recognize my homicidal talent."  
"Not if I got rid of you first."

Fingolfin opened his mouth to speak and swallowed a mouthful of water when Fëanor's weight sank him into the icy water. 

"Fool! What do you think you're doing?" he roared, coming afloat.  
"Try to drown you, obviously", laughed Fëanor behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders to push him to the bottom.  
For a few minutes, they fought under the water before emerging laughing and panting. Fingolfin pushed himself out of the water and held out a hand to his older brother, who accepted it with a grimace of disgust.  
"You're a party pooper," Fëanor grumbled.  
"In a little while, your son and mine will come round here to have a while of romanticism. I don’t want to interrupt their evening. And we need to change."

__//______//_______//________//________//__

Fëanor wiped his hair vigorously, then shook his head like a horse. Fingolfin grimaced as he left a plate with slices of cheese and dried meat on the table.  
"Always ready?" the eldest smiled, sitting down while taking a piece of meat.  
"I'm supposed to hide here when there are too many people in my house", Fingolfin shrugged and filled two glasses of wine. "I like a little silence from time to time."  
"Does it help you think?"  
"It helps me not to think."

They ate in silence, exchanging glances each time they went for the same piece of cheese or for the same glass.

When Fingolfin got up to enliven the fire for the second time, Fëanor pouted.

"Stop doing that", he said. "I'm not cold, you know?"  
"Sorry",Fingolfin snorted standing before the stove. "Sometimes I don’t know how warm the temperature is for others. I've been wearing summer clothes in full in winter and people look at me like I'm crazy, and it's just that I can’t feel the cold like them." 

Fëanor wiped his hands on his napkin and rose to his feet. He put his arms around him from behind and rested his cheek on Fingolfin’s shoulder.

"Sometimes it is easy to believe that everything was a nightmare", he murmured.  
"Everything?"  
"Everything that happened between some time after the liberation of Morgoth and our rebirth."  
"We're not going to blame Morgoth alone, huh? My adulthood made you feel very bad."  
"Your position in the Council shocked me. We already talked about this, didn't we? I remember it," he said, forcing Fingolfin to turn to face him. "We were in one of those inhospitable gray rooms, with nothing more furniture than you and me ... and Vairë's depressing tapestries."  
"I remember it more colorful; but maybe it's my perception."  
" We should camp one of these days."  
"That too? You want a boat, that Curufin build you a dock ..."  
"You want Curufin to build the dock", Fëanor reminded him.  
" ... and now you want to go camping. What the hell is wrong with you?"  
"There are too many people around all the time." He complained, going to sit in front of the stove.  
"You had seven children. It's logical - You know what? There should be more people around you: one wife per son and two grandchildren per marriage."

Fëanor watched him with exaggerated consternation.

"I knew you were planning something against me, little traitor!"  
"Little? I passed you in stature millennia ago, big brother", Fingolfin mocked, dropping by his side. "Speaking of family, are you going to Nerdanel’s exhibition? She sent invitations for everyone."  
"It depends on whether I will receive more history lessons. I heard that Anairë will offer a dinner at the Palace of Arts. Are you invited?"  
"I have to buy _suitable clothes_ , according to Idril. When did my granddaughter become my personal stylist?"  
"Idril. I do not see her often. Where is she?"  
"She and Lómion live on the outskirts of Alqualondë, far from the rumors. My granddaughter does not take criticism well."  
"She inherited it from her mother."  
"Elenwë is a sun of person and Idril has Caranthir’s bad temper. How the hell did she inherit it?"  
"Genetics. After all, both are cousins on the father's side. I guess some relative of dad had that wonderful character that later went through to my son and then to your granddaughter. Galadriel is the other who inherited that temper: she only conceals it with smiles. Do you remember when…?"

He fell silent when he realized that Fingolfin leaned against him with eyes closed. For a second, he was about to shake him, scolding him for falling asleep; but then a smile curved his mouth and gently, he moved his brother to put him on the carpet before the fire.


	2. Chapter 2

Fingolfin unbuttoned the sapphire brooches on his tunic, mumbling curses under his breath. It was more than midnight, he had barely eaten, his head hurt from drinking so as not to answer the questions of the idiots as they deserved ... and his feet ached from walking the distance from the road to his house.

He entered the cabin and jumped when he saw a silhouette in front of the fireplace.

“Oh, for Yavanna’s petticoats, Curufinwë!”, he exclaimed when recognizing his brother. “Do you want to kill me from a heart attack?”  
“N-no”, the older elf frowned, closing the book on his lap to watch him pacing from side to side as he stripped off his tunic with sudden movements. “Are you ok?”  
“I've never been better, I assure you”, Fingolfin replied, sarcastically and rummaged on the shelves.  
“Are you looking for this?" Fëanor asked raising the bottle of wine with one hand.  
"How did you know? "

Fëanor followed Fingolfin's sudden movements with his eyes: he had never seen him so out of his mind. Except when he challenged a god to a duel, of course; but a sea of fire was not unleashed on their lands, so Fëanor could not understand his fury.

“So, dinner's over? How was it?”  
“Wonderful. Really ... wonderful. They read poems. Can you believe it? A little girl sang me a ballad and a choir sang an ode ... in my honor! They sang my duel with Morgoth in three hundred and seventy six verses of fourteen syllables! **Three hundred and seventy six verses!”**  
“Of fourteen syllables”, Fëanor said.  
“ Of four ... Are you making fun of me?” He frowned, offended.  
“No!”, the older elf defended himself, shaking his head. “I'm stunned. Woh! Three hundred and seventy six verses are ... many verses.”  
“And a lot of time singing. With instrumental interludes.” Fingolfin emptied the glass for the second time and served himself again. “Besides, there were the idiots with idiotic questions.”  
“Oh yes, I remember them. They ask questions such as: ‘What is it like to be the only orphaned elf in Valinor? Is it true that you are cursed and devoured all the energy of your mother at birth? How does it feel that your father has a new family?’ "  
“ ‘Did it hurt when he put his foot on you?’ ‘Were you alive when your body broke?’ ‘How did it feel to know that you could not win the war?’ ‘What did you feel when they all started dying and you knew that you had dragged them there behind your brother?’ ‘I guess you hit Fëanáro when you two met again. ‘ ‘ It must be a torture to have him around all the time.’

Silence followed his last sentence. After a few minutes, Fëanor asked, quietly:

“What did you answer them?”  
“ That we hit each other and Námo had to separate us. And I manage your closeness quite well.”  
“ Námo did not separate us.”  
“I cannot tell those stupid people that the Vala of Death sat down to watch us fight. I don’t think he cares how people see him; but Manwë would surely have a sermon for me for tarnishing the reputation of one of the Aratar.”

He took a long drink.

“You have had enough of that”, Fëanor replied at that moment, covering the bottle and putting it out of reach.  
“You're not my father, remember?”  
“But I'm still the eldest and the one with most common sense.”  
“Arguably. I can remember an Oath, burned ships and a charge against a fortress with only a hundred soldiers.”  
“Three hundred and seventy six verses, Nolofinwë. Three hundred and seventy six verses about you challenging a god.”  
“I hurt him seven times.”  
“Effectively, I could check. You left the throne to a warrior who does not know how to cook.”  
“You do not know how to cook either.”  
“I'm not going to social events. No more wine for you: I remember how bad it feels to you.”  
“You know what's wrong with me?” Fingolfin hissed, squeezing the glass with clenched fingers. “To have crossed the Helcaraxë, to have to put up with the desire to break your face, to bear the bastards of your children, to rule for 400 years being politically correct with the coward of Thingol and his “wise” wife, to keep the orcs at bay during that time, watch my people die around me - knowing that it's my fault - challenge a goddamn god, give him a fight for hours, and still have to endure that someone feels entitled to question my way of dealing with my brother!” 

He sat up in a jump. 

“You're my brother, damn it! You are **my problem!** Nobody cares how I treat you or I do not treat you! Especially if they just made me listen to 400 verses of crap!”

Fëanor followed him with his eyes as he kicked a chair in his path before stopping in front of the fireplace, resting a forearm on the brick sill. Slowly, he stood up and went to him to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you see it? Enough wine for tonight,” he declared and sliding his hand down, rubbed between Fingolfin’s shoulder blades, gently. “I have taken your measure.”  
“Something that Finarfin evidently has not achieved in all these years.”  
“I warned you that invitation stank.”  
“I had no idea it was a fucking tribute. Is it that the fact that I built a house eighty meters from your children's does not say anything to the stupid one of my younger brother?”  
“ Yeah. It tells him that he have to try to recover you harder.”  
“He's not going to get it by killing me with boredom with choral odes.” Fingolfin growled, throwing his head back when Fëanor's hands massaged his shoulders. 

“ Arvo has no idea how much you hate poetry”, half smiled the other.  
“I spent three months writing that damn poem for father’s anniversary and you appear with a new fucking alphabet as a gift.”  
“Father put the poem next to his header, engraved with gold letters on an ivory tablet.”  
“With your tengwar. I wrote it using the sarati.”  
“ He wanted the gifts of his two sons gathered in one. He did not put on the shoes that Findis gave him next to his headboard. “

Fingolfin burst into laughter and broke free of his brother's hands to turn in front of him. 

"Mother would have killed him if he had put a pair of boots on the nightstand.”  
“ Good point; but my thesis remains.”  
“ That I hate poetry? Not quite. I just ... I can live without it.”  
“How did you conquer Anairë?”  
“ I did not have to do it, remember?” He raised an eyebrow. “It was more like ... ‘son, here's your wife; daughter, here is your husband: understand each other, accept each other ... and do the best you can.’ No poetry, walks in Telperion's light, escapes to Vána’s Woods ... or kisses stolen in the galleries. Many expensive gifts, yes; but without romantic notes. It's not my style: I could not write one even if I wanted to.”  
“You underestimate yourself. You understand quite well the concept of romanticism, I would say.”  
“ I saw how it happened around me. And, why did you invade my house today?”  
“ Your refuge. My house seems to be the meeting point tonight. I walked on someone twice and nobody seemed to need me, so I slipped away. Did you walk back from dinner?”  
” I got back in a rental carriage and the road is too narrow for a carriage to get to the house.”  
”That ... should also serve as a clue to our younger brother. Finish changing while I prepare something to eat: I have the certainty that you did not eat anything in that dinner.”  
“Canapés. They tasted good. A little salty, but better than those salads that Finarfin insists on making me eat to cleanse my palate from the barbaric meals of Middle Earth." 

While he spoke in a tone of annoyance, Fingolfin took off his varnished boots and his velvet vest, leaving only his silk shirt and tight pants. With his eyes fixed on the fire, he put his hand to his hair to remove the jewels attached to the braids. 

“Eat", ordered Fëanor putting a plate with cheese, bread and meat on the table. “I'll take care of your hair later.”

Fingolfin obeyed as if he were still fifteen years old and his brother was taking care of him on one of his field trips.  
Later, Fëanor sat on the sofa and Fingolfin stood on the floor between his knees so that he could release the jewels. 

“Where did you get these?” Fëanor asked, studying one of the black pearls.  
“A gift from Eärwen. They grow them in a small place in Alqualondë. They are priceless.”  
“How good are the relationships?”  
“Except for the little detail of me killing his compatriots, Eärwen and I get along quite well. To apologize to her was one of my first forced stops after reincarnation.”  
“ Also of mine; but she does not give me pearls.”  
“ I'm going to buy you some for your anniversary: do not whine.”  
“How generous of you: to give expensive pearls to your helpless older brother." 

Fingolfin muttered something about helpless princes who owned two mines and the best forge of Tirion; but the words faded to his lips as Fëanor's fingers combed his long hair, spreading them over his shoulders and back. For the next few minutes, the older elf unraveled the loops and gently massaged the scalp ... until his brother reclined his head on his thigh and sighed, satisfied. 

"You better lie down," suggested Fëanor, resting his hands on his shoulders. “You are tired and the effect of the wine will pass sooner.”  
“Yes” whispered the younger and got up on his knees to crawl to the mat in front of the fireplace.  
“You have an alcove in this cabin, Nolvo; why do not you use it? "  
" I like it here, " Fingolfin replied. “And the bed’s too narrow for you to sleep with me.”

Fëanor did not wait for a second invitation: sliding from his seat, he lay down on Fingolfin's back and hugged him from behind.

__//______//_______//________//________//__

Fëanor awoke with his nose buried in abundant hair. At some point in the night, Fingolfin had also removed his shirt and now the elder's hand was resting open on his bare chest. Through the cracks in the windows came the dim light that preceded the dawn.  
The elf half sat up and looked at the window, considering returning home; but then Fingolfin settled himself on his back with him, and his gaze descended to the tanned torso, covered by the thick jet curls.

Closing his eyes, Fëanor bowed and pressed his lips lightly under Fingolfin's ear.

At what point had he begun to feel this? At what point did jokes and good company have become a habit, a necessity? At what point had Fingolfin stopped being the brother he once appreciated - and later hated - to become the elf he loved?

He moved slowly away ... only to find the blue gaze watching him through the curved eyelashes.

“Good morning”, Fingolfin greeted with a sleeping voice.  
“ I want to touch you”, confessed Fëanor, heart going up to his throat.  
“You are to ... oh.”

The comprehension tinged Fingolfin's cheekbones with an almost violet hue.  
Fëanor waited for an answer - something more than the tongue moistening the parched lips with nervousness. That was an image he did not need right now - not when his body had decided to remember that it was alive and healthy, and his blood flowed abundantly to swell the less indicated parts.

“ I thought you and Nerdanel were ... you know, fixing it ... I thought that was going well. It's what it looked like ... Are you sure it's not ...?”  
“No.”

The only syllable pronounced by Fëanor was lost in the moan of surprise with which Fingolfin welcomed his mouth. For a moment, only Fëanor kissed and explored his half-brother’s mouth; but then Fingolfin threw his arms around his neck and answered like a hungry in the face of ambrosia.

Fëanor moved to lie on top of Fingolfin, who opened his legs to leave space instinctively. A moan of amazement and pleasure escaped them both as their rigid sexes touched through their clothes. The older prince’s hands ran anxiously over the torso of the other.

Suddenly, Fingolfin uttered an exclamation and with firm gestures, he freed himself from the kiss to escape from under his brother. Fëanor sat half-panting, never taking his eyes off the other's tense shoulders.

“What are we doing?” Fingolfin demanded without turning around. “This doesn't ... This is not right.”  
“You liked it, " said Fëanor, clinging to the evidence.  
“Well, you kiss nice, asshole”, he growled, half turning his face. “But you are my brother. We cannot…”

Fëanor leapt at him, wrapping his arms around him, running his lips over his neck.

“Now say it with feeling” he murmured hoarsely. “As if you really believed it.”  
“Don’t be ... ah! Gods, Curufinwë!” Fingolfin moaned, throwing his head back when the other’s hand covered his sex, pressing the hard length.

His brother's response was to nibble at his earlobe, lick the curve of his jaw. Desperate, Fingolfin freed himself from his embrace ... but only to turn around and push him by the shoulders until he lay on his back.  
Fëanor dug his fingers into his hips as Fingolfin covered him with his body and rose to rub their erections. They moved against each other in rough circles. With a sudden gesture, Fëanor shifted his positions, sliding down his brother’s torso to lick a nipple until Fingolfin writhed, gasping for breath.

Míriel's son sat up to kiss his partner in the mouth while deftly opening his pants.

“I'm going to make you come”, he promised, fiercely, his silver eyes flashing like stars. “In my mouth. I'm going to devour you, Nolofinwë.”

Fingolfin opened his eyes, bewildered by the passion in his voice, in his words. Getting along with Fëanor was one thing; being the object of his desire, was another very different.

Fëanor's fingers closed around his brother's sex, caressing and grasping, while his mouth traced a path to his belly. He laid a too-soft kiss on the base of his abdomen and brushed his tongue over the tip of his taut cock.

The most powerful of the Noldorin warriors made a sound shamefully similar to a meow and with a rest of sanity, buried the fingers of one hand on the plush of the carpet while entangle the other hand in the loose hair of his brother. With an effort, he got up enough to see his sex disappear in Fëanor’s mouth , who - upon perceiving his movement - raised his eyelids to observe him. 

Fingolfin watched in amazement as his brother let the cock escape from his reddened lips with an indecently wet sound, and then traced it with the tip of his tongue.

Fëanor lingered, giving small licks on the bright tip, insisting on the small hole until he tasted the essence of his lover. Only then did he devour it again until it touched his throat. 

Fingolfin whimpered helplessly, collapsing on his back, letting himself be carried away by the need to bump into that delicious warmth until all common sense was diluted. The explosion was so sudden that he did not have time to warn Fëanor; but he did not seem to have any intention of moving away when the sperm filled his mouth and kept sprouting, almost faster than he could swallow: instead, with his free hand he released his own erection and stroked himself roughly. 

When Fingolfin relaxed beneath him with a muffled sigh, the older brother stood straight and still touching and - in a matter of seconds - reached the climax, the pearly shots striking the chest and the flat belly of the lying one.  
Fëanor sank down on him, moaning his name in a torn voice. 

 

A long time passed before Fëanor moved to place soft kisses on his brother's nose and cheekbones. For a moment, Fingolfin only moved, offering his face to the tender caresses; but then, reality hit him so hard that it cut off his breath.  
Fëanor fell back as he felt his lover tense in his arms and recoiled quickly to see his expression of horror .

“What?” demanded.  
“You ... I ... us ... this!” gasped Fingolfin. “This is wrong!”  
“It did not feel wrong”, Fëanor smiled and extended a hand to touch his hair.  
“No!” Fingolfin hit his hand, pulling him away. “Brothers, Curufinwë. You and I are brothers.”  
“Right now that is quite questionable: we have received new bodies, so the same blood is not running in our veins.”

“Do not get away with that!” Fingolfin roared, jumping up as he tried to fix his clothes with trembling fingers ... only to moan when his hands tripped with Fëanor's semen all over his skin.  
“It's ... true”, Fëanor replied, hiding the smile that came to his lips to see the deliciously libertine aspect of his partner. 

“No, it is not! The truth is that we are brothers, **brothers** , Curufinwë! Children of the same father, no matter how many times we are reborn! And this…!” 

He paused as he confronted Fëanor's astonished expression: for a moment, he thought it would be a crime to erase such happiness from Fëanor's eyes, from the brother he loved more than his own life. 

“This will not happen again, Fëanor.”

The name in Sindarin sounded terribly wrong coming from _that_ voice. Although they used Sindarin names for everyone else, between them two, they had continued called themselves by the names in Quenya - a kind of intimate pact that their sons and nephews witnessed with half smiles and raised eyebrows. But his brother had just used the Sindarin version of his name, Fëanor realized, putting a new distance between them, raising a barrier ... one that he was not sure he dared to knock down right now. 

He stood up, looking for his shirt and boots. He finished dressing quickly, anxious to get away from Fingolfin.

“I'm sorry.”

Fingolfin's voice stopped him when he opened the door. He did not turn around. 

“Why would you?” Fëanor shrugged. ”We have never been able to synchronize our feelings: this time it does not have to be different. We will learn to live with it. Once again.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lying face down on his bed, Fëanor was staring at the wall. In his mind, he repeated his own words.

Learn to live with it. Once again.

It had been several days since he had left Fingolfin's cabin and they had not met again. With his usual common sense, his half-brother had avoided they see each other on the rare occasions when the two families met. It was a game: when Fëanor arrived, he could still feel the slight freshness with citrus aroma that Fingolfin left in his wake; when he left, he was sure that the other would arrive. It was a game that left furrows of fire in his soul, deep stabs of longing. He had never experienced such a need: in his first life, wanting something and possessing it was the same thing. Nerdanel had not even opposed the slightest doubt to his seduction. Lovers who followed their separation were always too willing and would not have deserved much insistence on his part either. On this occasion, in spite of his ominous fame, he had not needed to make an effort to find company. The infamous Fëanor, who betrayed his own brother and condemned his sons to commit unspeakable acts, was an attraction that aroused the most morbid thoughts in his compatriots of both sexes. But Fëanor didn’t want the easy pleasures of a night of seduction: he wanted the only thing he could not have, the only elf who would deny his passion. Not his love, no: Fëanor was aware that his half-brother would never deny him his love. Fingolfin loved him, loved him in every way possible; but he wouldn’t yield to all of them.

Ten thousand years ago, when all Fingolfin wanted was to please him, Fëanor was certain that he would not have hesitated to become his lover. But now Fingolfin was different ... or maybe it was Fëanor who was different. Fëanor only knew that this Fingolfin - the one who opened his heart to him again, the one who shared his new life more as a friend than as an imposed family, the one who entrusted him once more the treasure that his children were - would not bow his head just to please him. On the other hand, he did not want Fingolfin to content him! He wanted Fingolfin to want him as much as he wanted, he wanted his half-brother to burn in the same longing as he, who wanted to feel his mouth and hands in an irrefutable proof of love...  
Love! Fëanor would have laughed at himself if his heart did not hurt too much every time he thought of Fingolfin.

_"You will learn to accept and understand each other ... and Eru help us when that happens."_

Námo’s words the day he met them for the first time resonated in Fëanor’s mind.  
Was that what he meant? The elf asked himself. Did the Soul’s Keeper really anticipate this?

“Father?”

Maedhros's voice called from the other side of the door.

“Father? Are you going to have dinner with us? Fingon is asking about you.”  
“Fingon?”

Fëanor jumped out of bed with the impatience of a teenager. In just a second he had changed his shirt and combed his hair into a decent appearance before opening the door.

“What does your boyfriend want?”, he asked.  
“ **My husband** is worried about you”, raised an eyebrow his eldest son. “He says he has not seen you for days.”  
“We see each other too much. He almost lives here.”  
“I think it's an excuse. Are you coming or not?”  
“An excuse for what?” Fëanor murmured, still following his son.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

“Good evening, uncle”, Fingon greeted with his usual radiant smile.

At times, Fëanor wondered if something would overshadow his nephew's happiness. He greeted him with a nod and went to the table just to grab a plate and pour himself the stew.

“Don’t you sit with us?” Fingon asked indicating a seat.  
“I never suspected that you loved me so much, nephew” hissed Fëanor, leaning on the kitchen table to eat standing up.  
“Well, since I barely see my father, I thought maybe I should adopt you as a surrogate father.”  
“How could you see him if you're never at home? And I have more children on the account, thanks.”  
“I go to my house every day. It is he who is never there. I think he accepted a job at the Public Library. Something of adviser ... or archivist. I did not pay much attention when Gil explained it to me.”  
“Adviser, huh? Just the job he would choose.”  
“I think he could use your help”, said Fingon, passing bread to his husband, who squeezed his fingers as a warning. “Something with some translations that are driving him crazy.”  
“Nolo ... your father would ask me for help if he needed it”, declared Fëanor.  
“Maybe”, Fingon nodded with a grimace. “Or maybe he hopes to prove to you that he can do it alone. Again.”  
“Fingon!”, Maedhros mused.  
“ We already know where that takes us”, concluded Fingolfin’s son, ignoring the warning of his companion.  
“The Helcaraxë no longer exists”, said Fëanor and started walking. “I'm going to eat in my room.”

“Congratulations” Maedhros said once his father had left. “I had never seen such a display of diplomacy.”  
“Diplomacy is yours and my father's. I'm the one who throws himself head-on into problems. But, hey, I handled it quite discreetly.”  
“Yeah! Discreetly.”  
“Russo, whatever. I want my father to laugh again like a few months ago. I don’t know what happened between them; but they are funnier when they get along. Be honest: when was the last time you saw your father so happy before returning?”  
“When ... uh ... that time your father brought ... No, actually he was just as happy as when he and Fingolfin escaped to the Kemendili parties ... my mother got very angry ... No, wait! It was like when I was a kid and your father spent the day...”  
“Once that doesn’t include my father, please?”  
“N-no”, admitted Maedhros after thinking about it. “They got along very well before ... well, father preferred Fingolfin over us, so ...”  
“Good! My point is proven. Also, it was Caranthir's idea: go scold him.” 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Fingolfin looked up from the parchment he was reading and for a second, he doubted he was seeing well. 

Fëanor entered the office with long strides. 

"This is outrageous for the hero they wrote 376 verses," he declared, studying the shelves.  
“No one is going to recite them here, I assure you.”  
“I thought you would have been given a real office.”  
“My office in Barad Eithel looked just like this”, he opened his arms, embracing the place.  
“ Now, I know why you were running after the orcs instead of staying to do the paperwork.” He leaned over to read the spine of one of the volumes. “Fingon mentioned something about a translation ...”  
“From the Valarin.”  
“It is not your strength.”  
“It’s horrible”, raised an eyebrow Fingolfin. “It sounds horrible.”

“Where are those documents?”  
“There.”  
He followed his brother with his sight as he unfurled the scroll and began to read.

"Do not you have a chair?" Fëanor asked looking up from his reading.  
“Under those ... right there. Are you gonna help me?”  
“I do not have anything better to do.”  
“You're going ... we're going to spend many hours together”, said the younger cautiously. “It's OK for you?”  
“Why should not it be?” Fëanor frowned, looking at him.  
“For ... for what happened before ... what you said earlier ...”

Color left Fëanor's cheeks; but immediately, he recovered himself.

“It will not happen again”, he shrugged. “I also said that we would learn to live with this.”  
“Uh… Ok”, Fingolfin accepted his explanation.

Fëanor contemplated him while he returned to concentrate in the document. His gaze drew the clear forehead, the temples adorned by a simple silver circlet, the thin line of hair that framed the jawbone - was Fingolfin going to have a beard among all the elves of Valinor? - lips compressed in a pout, aquiline nose, high cheekbones ... hells, this elf was attractive! 

“For the record”, said Fëanor, making his brother raise his head; “I have not succeeded. I have not managed to learn to live with ... this. But I prefer to be close to you and ... endure the urge to touch you and ... I prefer that to not have your company."

To his delight, Fingolfin blushed like a maid and only nodded as he cleared his throat. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Fingolfin leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes as he stretched. 

“Why did you accept this job if it's killing you?” Fëanor asked leaving a cup of tea in front of him and going to sit behind the other table in the room.  
“I needed to get out of the house” confessed the younger after thanking him. “Also, now I have an excuse to refuse Finarfin’s invitations.”  
“When did you learn to be so cunning?”  
“Since I was a child: I accepted duties at the Academy to get rid of official meetings at the Court. In Middle-earth, I excused myself with patrolling parties. Poor Erestor did all the work while Fingon and I went hiking.”  
“I always suspected you were a rogue.”  
“Well, this time I think I bit more than I could swallow”, he grumbled. 

The crowded office of Fingolfin was much more organized than the first day that Fëanor entered it and now there were two work tables instead of one; but it was still too narrow a place. 

“You will handle it”, smiled Fëanor, mocking. “You always manage to swallow everything you bite. Even a kingdom.”  
“That's the... closest to a compliment I've received from you in many years.”

Fëanor considered refuting that statement; but, with a shrug, he said:  
“You do not do much to win them often.” He looked again at the open books in front of Fingolfin and with interest, asked: “Are you writing some records of our relations with humans?”  
“Eh ... a genealogy of the Three Houses of the Edain. Finrod should be helping me with the house of Bëor; but he's too busy with wedding preparations.”  
"The longest courtship in Elvish history," commented Míriel's son, hissing a low whistle. “I've always wondered why Finrod did not marry Amarië as soon as he was reincarnated.”  
“He wasn’t ready to share his memories of the war with her.”  
“And now?”  
“According to Caranthir, Amarië turned out to be tougher than Finrod thought.”  
“My son talks to you about the intimate life of his friend”, frowned Fëanor. “Interesting.”  
“Caranthir and I talked often. He's ... my other assistant. In terms of genealogies. He helps me with the Haladin.” “The House of Haleth”, Fëanor mused, thoughtful. “Do you think that one day he will get over it?”  
“To have fallen in love with a mortal?” Arched a brow Fingolfin. “No, I do not think he would do it. There is nothing like loving someone and knowing that they will slip out of your hands even before you have time to get to know them well.”

Fëanor tightened his lips, feeling an unexpected tightness in his chest.

"And ... who helps you with the Third House of the Edain? The House of Hador, right?”  
“None. They were my vassals and friends: if someone knows their history, it's me.”  
“I did not get to know Men; but I have heard many good things from them - accepted the eldest, returning to his texts in the language of the Valar. “And many bad ones too.”  
“You would have liked them. Men are proud and reckless. They live too fast for elven customs and their thirst for learning has no limit, as if they wanted to drink the world in the short time they will be in it. Galadriel and Elrond have told me that modern Men live much less than those who were born in my time as High King; but they are still curious as children and full of vitality like newborn puppies.”

Fëanor watched him without moving, experiencing the sensation that a puddle of blackness formed in his stomach. 

“You were close to them, were not you?”  
“I had good human friends”, Fingolfin agreed. “It was ... painful to watch them age, to burn out of age, devoured by fatigue until their strength completely deserted them ... It was ... too painful.”

The smile that illuminated Fingolfin's face as he spoke of human curiosity had been diluted when referring to his old age. Fëanor squeezed the quill in his fist. 

"They must have been great warriors indeed," he pointed out slowly. “The songs and the story speak well of the Edain.”  
“There is human blood running in my family, brother “, Fingolfin reminded him, “and it is an honor that it is so.”  
“Of course. After all, they were loved by you. Is not that how the songs say? ‘Hador Lórindon joined the House of Fingolfin when he was still young ... and was loved by the king.’ " 

Fingolfin tensed at his words, evidently read in some history book. A faint blush colored his cheekbones ... and a second later, he jumped when a snap forced him to look at his older brother: the quill had broken under the pressure of Fëanor's firm fingers. Finwë's eldest son stood up and strode to the door. 

“Curufinwë ...”  
“He was your lover!” Fëanor roared, turning toward him, silver eyes flaming like stars of anger. “That ... insignificant mortal was your lover.”  
“I wasn’t the only one who had a human lover. Finrod ...”  
“I do not care how many lovers Finrod had! Or their race! I do not care if each of the Noldor slept with half Middle Earth!” He approached his desk, hovering over him almost threatening. ”You, Nolofinwë. You are the one who matters to me.”  
“My intimate life is not ...”  
“Why do you deny me what you so freely gave to someone you barely knew?”

Fingolfin had leaned back to face his brother and for a moment, his heart squeezed at the tortured expression that transfigured the exquisite features. 

"Hador wasn’t my brother," he declared, hardening his tone as if speaking to a small child.  
“Damn it, Nolofinwë, stop hiding yourself in stupid excuses.” He demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Your granddaughter has married your grandchild. In second marriage. And our firstborns get married with the blessing of three High Kings and a dozen Valar.”  
“Brothers, Curufinwë!” Fingolfin exclaimed, releasing himself from his hands and pushing him across the chest with his palms extended to get up. “Why the hell does it take you so hard to understand?”  
“Physically, we are not brothers anymore.”  
“You will always be my brother. It's everything I've always wanted: you to love me and see me as your brother, as someone worthy of your blood and your affection ...”  
“Oh, but I consider you something else”, Fëanor half-smiled and his brother leaned on the table , baffled by the flare of lust that ignited his gaze. “Say you do not feel like me. Deny, if you dare, you enjoyed my caresses, my desire for you ... Deny that your blood is heated when you think of surrendering to these emotions ...”  
“I deny it” interrupted Fingolfin, recovering calm. “Because I don’t think about that ever.”

Statement cut off Fëanor's breath. Never? So, Fingolfin did not want him even a little? Fingolfin did not remember those moments of passion? Inwardly, Fëanor cursed Fingolfin's ability to camouflage his thoughts. 

“Did you love him?” he asked in a whisper. “That mortal ... did you love him like you do not love me?”  
“Yes. I loved him as one can only love a mortal partner ... and that, Curufinwë, is something you cannot understand.”  
“ Is that what you think?” He frowned.  
“I know it with all certainty.”

Fëanor pressed his lips together, trying to find an answer; but all that came to his mind was that Fingolfin had loved that young human, that he had given himself to him, that he had given that boy a part of himself that denied him instead ... and the images that the thought awakened were driving him crazy, burning his soul and destroying the fragile balance that they recovered in the last days. With an effort, he turned on himself and left the office. 

Fingolfin was as petrified, his blue eyes fixed on the closed door. Fëanor's sudden passion was undermining his mental and emotional stability more than he would like to admit. To have longed for Fëanor's love for so long and now to have it in excess was enough to drive a more equitable elf mad ... and Fingolfin had proven not to be even-tempered in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? Who's right? Fëanor, saying they aren't brothers anymore? Or Fingolfin, affirming they will always be brothers?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming that those elves that never left Valinor use quenya names rather than sindarin ones. So, Nerdanel uses quenya names.

“It's a surprise to see you here. I thought you did not want to leave your hiding place.”

Fëanor looked up from the water of the fountain to see Nerdanel.  
His wife looked exactly like the day she told him to go to hell with his damn stones and his desire of fight: she even wore an apron from whose pockets the chisels of different sizes protruded and her red hair was pulled back in a twisted bun on top of the head!

"It's a house, not a hiding place," he declared, without breaking his frown, and returned his attention to the crystalline water. “Why are there coins in the fountain?”  
“It's ... a human tradition that our brothers brought from Middle Earth: you make a wish and throw a coin at the source.”  
"Great," Fëanor snorted, squinting. “Human traditions in Valinor. Those plagues are everywhere.”  
“I did not think you had anything against humans”, Nerdanel mocked. “In fact, I'm pretty sure you did not even meet them before ...”  
“Neither do I need to. I know everything I need to know: damn usurper thieves.”  
“Woo! Someone is misanthrope around here. I do not think Mandos likes listening to how you express yourself ...”  
“Mandos can go to ...”

He stopped in time, considering that the Judge would not remain silent while he sent him to ... whatever. Besides, Nerdanel was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, as if considering the possibility that he would suffer one of his outbursts again.

“I’m having a bad day”, grumbled between teeth, returning to pay attention to the fountain.  
“And the humans are to blame? The poor ones are not even here.”  
“Lucky me. It would be the only thing that I need: to have to see how ...”  
“How what?”  
“Forget it. What are you doing here? Any commission?”  
“My exhibition is in the gardens two blocks from here: I'm finishing details. Have you already decided if you are coming?”  
“Will I be welcome?” He watched her out of the corner of his eye, with a raised eyebrow.  
“I would not have invited you in any other way. You will always be welcome, Fëanáro.” She looked around. “I was just going to eat something. Do you want to come with me?”  
“Are you going to enter with me in a public establishment? Do not you care what they think?”  
“You are my children’s father: I cannot do anything to erase that.” She shrugged. “And I would not want to do it either. Besides, the only thing you will do is attract more attention to me: many more people will come to my exhibition if there is the possibility of seeing you up close.”  
“Great! I'm your marketing strategy.”

Nerdanel studied him, more worried than she would admit. The twins had mentioned that Fëanor had been in bad mood for several days, wandering the corners of the house, not perching anywhere, unable to work ... until a week ago he had regained some of his calm.

“You fought with Nolofinwë, right?”, she said after a moment.

Fëanor straightened up as if hit with a red-hot iron. 

“Am I so transparent now?”, he growled.  
“I know you two have spent a lot of time together and that it was the fact that you made peace that made it easier for Námo to advocate for your reincarnation. In addition, my children constantly talk about how close the houses are, how close the families are now ... and Arafinwë does not stop complaining about the fact that even his first-born son preferred to live in that harmony before the Court. On the other hand, I remember that you both used to be pretty close before Nolofinwë's coming of age: he was your favorite apprentice.”  
“He was a terrible apprentice” grumbled Fëanor. “Clumsy and reckless, scattering everything and telling stupid stories about Middle Earth and the eagles ... and battles and the ancient warriors ... and the stars. He forced me to steal a boat for his idiocies.”  
“Oh yeah! I remember that: your father was furious and Indis almost died of fright when she discovered that Nolofinwë was missing, and Nolofinwë was euphoric because you had taken him to see the stars! He kept telling how you would teach him the names of all the constellations.” Nerdanel laughed, moved by the memory and Fëanor smiled faintly. “I was very happy that you got along again: it must always have been like that, you know?”  
“Yes”, he sighed, crossing his arms over the chest. “However, it seems that Nolofinwë and I are not destined to agree for a long time.”  
“Do not be silly. What is a small disagreement after everything that has happened? Nolofinwë has forgiven you worse than an argument and you have overcome much more powerful fears. Now, you know that Nolofinwë never wanted to undermine your position as heir or impersonate your father's affection. You know that Nolofinwë is, above all, your brother and your friend. Whatever the disagreement between you, you will fix it.”

_Will we do it?_ Fëanor wondered, watching her apprehensively. Nerdanel raised an eyebrow at his frightened child's expression and grabbed him by the hand, pulling him away.

“Come on. Come with me to eat: I'm starving.”  
“It's okay; but before ...” He take a glance at the fountain and with an uncertain tone, he asked: “Do you lend me a coin?”

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__ 

 

Fingolfin hissed, impatient with himself when he confused for the second time the names of the daughters of Baragund and Belegund. It was the third sheet that he ruined that day and not even telling all the mistakes he made in the previous days.   
Irritated, he put the pen aside and left the desk to go to the only window in the room. It had been two weeks since Fëanor had discovered his relationship with Hador - a relationship that had occurred almost **fifteen millennia** ago, by Aulë’s beards! - and since then, they had not seen each other again. Besides the fact that his romance with the human occurred at a time even forgotten by mankind, there was the circumstance that Fëanor need not have reacted so exaggeratedly. 

_“Why do you deny me what you so freely gave to someone you barely knew?”_

How hard was it to understand the obstacles that stood in the way of a physical relationship between Fëanor and him?   
Fingolfin growled under his breath, cursing his brother's stubbornness. Why could not they just continue as they were until that morning? Why could not they forget the way they touched, in which their mouths met and possessed, in which their bodies succumbed to passion? Why could not _he_ forget the fire in Fëanor's eyes, the warmth in his words? Was not he the one who understood the impossibility of that relationship? He was the sane of the two - he always had been - but in the last days it seemed that Fëanor's madness also reached him.   
Yes, it was true that he enjoyed what happened between them; however, that could easily be attributed to the lack of physical contact he had had in recent times ... What the hell! He had not had sex for over a year! In his house lived too many people, it was not his style to frequent the Lakes of Pleasure and definitely, he had been spending a lot of time with his newly reincarnated brother. Instead, he knew that Fëanor had not been playing the _celibate elf_ , so he couldn’t understand this sudden sensual interest in him. 

Of course they used to touch each other a lot: it had always been that way. When Fingolfin was an infant, he used to sleep with his older brother, sitting on top of him for naps, bellowing furiously when he had to leave with the nanny while Fëanor remained in the living room with his father ... until Fëanor simply agreed to go with him to the room. While growing up in adolescence, Fingolfin had also been stuck to his brother like a limpet: they went camping, he was his apprentice in the forge, they studied together, they explored the caverns ... they stole boats ... they took a tiger to the anniversary party of Olwë Ciriáran ... they covered the dress of Findis with glitter ...   
In conclusion, touching each other often, as they did, had seemed natural. The fact that Fëanor combed him or that Fingolfin massaged his brother's back after a day in the forge, healing the wounds of the other or giving the finishing touches to the attire before leaving ... was never weird or uncomfortable. They were brothers, for Eru’s sake! And that's what brothers did.   
Fingolfin remembered having combed Finarfin a thousand times in his life, had arranged Lalwen's curls or the loops of his dress before he launched into a new conquest, put his tired body in the wise hands of Findis a hundred times ... Never, even in his darkest nightmares in Barad Eithel, Fingolfin saw something inappropriate in his behavior. The touch of Finarfin, Findis or Lalwen did not cause chills on his skin, did not bring immoral memories ... it did not arouse a forbidden curiosity. 

A sting on the back of his neck gave him away that he was being observed and turned around to face the elf at the door.   
For a very brief instant, he almost ran to him, thinking it was Fëanor. 

“Curufin”, he greeted his nephew, lightly clenching his fist to control his anxiety.   
“Fingolfin”, replied his nephew and took a step inside the office. 

At first, Fingolfin recreated the resemblance between father and son. More than the proud curve of the chin or the marked cheekbones, or the sensual lips ... the resemblance was in the brightness of the pupils, in how the corner of the mouth twisted with disdain, in the straight shoulders to offer an image of superiority ... and Fingolfin was amused to observe those details knowing that deep down his older brother was like a curious and spoiled child. _Nothing else._

“Can I help you with something?” He asked when Curufin concentrated on the books on the shelves.   
“My father asked me to come to see you” said the young elf and turned to look at the desk that with all certainty belonged to his father. “He wants me to collect some documents that he is translating.”  
“Of course”, Fingolfin nodded and hurriedly picked up the parchments on which Fëanor was working. “Say him that he can send them to me with a messenger when he finish them.”  
“I'll tell him”, Curufin agreed; but he continued in the same place, pressing the rolls against his chest.  
“Anything else?” His uncle raised an eyebrow.   
“You argued, right?” said the youngest, observing him inquisitively. “Was it because of Finarfin? He is always trying to get between you two and ends up spoiling everything. You do not have to listen to Finarfin’s nonsenses: he has no idea what you ... what _we all_ live ... and certainly he does not have the moral baggage to comment on your decisions ... In reality, nobody has the moral to tell you what to do or not to do: you are the elf who faced Morgoth Bauglir to duel! They write odes about you ...”  
“Believe me: I am aware of that part.”  
“Do you see? In other words, you have all the right ... _you are the one_ with the most rights in all Valinor to do what you want and live as you wish. If, while you had the duty to behave according to the laws of this city, you did not hesitate to challenge the Noldóran’s heir and become a political leader in your own right, today you owe nothing to the one who turned back and sat on **your** throne for thousands of years. And is still sitting on it”, ended with a grimace of disdain. 

Fingolfin was not sure how to respond to Curufin's speech. At that moment he was abstracted trying to remember when was the last time that his nephew had spoken so many words to him. Or recognize his position as a political opponent of Fëanor. Even in Middle-earth, with the crown adorning his temples, Curufin and Celegorm had been the most determined to deny him and challenge his authority as High King. 

“I assure you that what Finarfin thinks about my relationship with your father does not bother me, Curufin”, reassured him. 

Curufin studied him then with a frown and bit his lower lip. 

"Then ... stop making the fool and fix it.”  
“Why do you assume it's my fault ...”  
“Maybe not; but I know for sure that my father will not be the first to give in and you are the least stubborn of the two.” 

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow and Curufin clicked his tongue. “You will know how to find a solution without it seems that one of the two is humiliating. Just ... just fix it, okay? My father needs you, " he finally whispered before turning around and leaving the room. Fingolfin let his breath out slowly.


	5. Chapter 5

The house was surrounded by a small garden and a cherry tree grew next to the fence. Fingolfin paused for a moment to appreciate the stillness of the place before dismounting the post-horse he rented in Alqualondë and then patting the animal's neck twice, left it loose to take the gravel road.

The door was open and no sound came from inside the dwelling, so the elf surrounded it and continued to the back garden. It took him barely a second to see the huge straw hat with which the female protected from the sun to work and then headed down near the garden. Leaning on the railing, he watched with a half-smile as the she-elf struggled to tear out the weeds while grumbling against the fertility of the earth for the useless herbs when their watermelons took so long to bear fruit.

“You should sing to them” Fingolfin proposed aloud. “My administrator in Barad Eithel assured that the plants are much happier with music ... Gilrin ... a very efficient girl. I wonder what became of her ...”  
“Grandpa!” shouted at that moment the she-elf as if she were fifteen years old and leaping up, passed over her precious watermelons to hang on Fingolfin's neck while filling him with kisses and dirt.  
“Wow! I must come more often: I did not know you loved me so much.”  
“Don’t be silly: of course you know it”, Idril retorted, leaning back without letting go of his neck.

The young elf frowned and ran a red-dirt finger across her grandfather's jaw.

“You're getting a beard”, she said, intrigued.  
“I'm going to look like Círdan. Do you invite me to a soft drink or do I have to stay in the sun? If so, I just changed my mind about coming to visit you often.”  
“I have something better than refreshment, old grouch.”

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__ 

 

Sitting at the kitchen table, Fingolfin tasted the biscuits with jam that his granddaughter would prepare for him.  
“It’s delicious, huh?”, she ordered him to speak.  
“You learned to cook” said Fingolfin, nodding at the good taste of the jams.  
“Eh ... Lómion was all the time telling me what to do ... and I burned two batches of cookies before they come out right; but ... yes, in essence, I learned to cook.” She pouted. “To bake cookies. And to make mango jam.”  
“You're a housewife”, he raised an eyebrow, amused.  
“I am, right?”

 

Fingolfin watched excitedly as his granddaughter's face lit up at the words. It was amazing how someone could change so much: Idril had been the princess of Gondolin, the golden girl of the Noldorin court, the heroine who saved many when the city fell, the mother of the Star of Hope Eärendil Ardamir ... and now she was happy just being able to bake cookies with her husband.

It was hard to associate the image of the history books - the golden curl queen who wielded a sword or danced in the moonlight in a crystal lake, something Fingolfin did not think her granddaughter would ever do - with the female sitting at the other side of the rustic table - hair gathered in braids around the head, cheeks tanned by the sun, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and by a single jewel a silver chain with an obsidian earring in the shape of a dagger.

“ I'm glad that makes you happy, little girl”, he said, taking her hand over the table.  
“If you came more often, you would have occasion to prove that I am very happy”, she assured, joining both hands in the much larger one of him. “Which I cannot say about you, grandpa. What happen?”

Once again, Fingolfin thought of Caranthir when he was with Idril. Genetics.

“Silly stuff.”  
“Finarfin is nagging you, right? And probably my father supports him from time to time.”  
“Why do you all think so bad about my brother? Finarfin is the sweetest among all of us. And your father is behaving very well: the twins do not leave him time to comment on my life.”  
“I'm happy for him. As for our beloved king ... sometimes he doesn’t know when to shut up. It is true that he’s very sweet; but he should learn that we are not all him and that he cannot judge others so quickly.”

Fingolfin bit his lower lip, remembering when Finarfin knew that Maeglin would be freed from Mandos. When Idril came to him, his younger brother had assumed that the young girl had come to ask him to oppose Námo's decision and before she could clear up, he started ranting about all of Maeglin's crimes and the punishments that really he deserved ... until a red-of-anger Idril anger shouted thats he was there to demand that she be allowed to receive Maeglin’s custody because she was going to marry him!

The second marriage of Idril Celebrindal did not cause so much legal dilemma as that of Finwë since her first union had been with a mortal man and with the death of Tuor, all ties had been permanently severed. However, the fact that the heroine of Gondolin decided to marry the elf who sold the city and who was said to have even tried to rape her, provoked terrible reactions among the elves of all Valinor. There were even some who pointed out that it was to be expected of a lineage of killers and killer lovers - that last part naturally referred to Fingon.  
Turgon had been intransigent in denying his support to his daughter; but instead, Finrod and Caranthir had helped the girl to build a house on the outskirts of Alqualondë to live with her husband. A good part of the family had refused to support Idril; but Fingolfin was proud to admit that he had been at the wedding of his grandchildren, accompanied by his other two sons and by Maedhros and Caranthir. Anairë had arrived at the last minute; but in time to see them exchange the wedding vows at the seashore. 

For a while, Fingolfin had thought that Idril had made that decision because she felt partly responsible for Maeglin's fate, especially after talking with Maedhros and Celebrimbor about what a prisoner suffered at the hands of Morgoth and Sauron. He was sure guilt was not a good reason to get married; however, when he saw her smile - as now - Fingolfin wondered if Idril really would not love Maeglin ... if she had not loved him all the time. 

"Finarfin has nothing to do with my state of mind," he said at last, stroking the back of her hand.  
“It's good to know: I don’t wanna have to go to Tirion to tell him a few things” she raised an eyebrow. “Then, it's your other brother.”  
“Eh ... we had a little argument.”  
“We're not going to steal ships again, right?” Idril asked. 

Fingolfin grimaced: why did everyone seem to only remember moments in his life related to stolen boats? 

“No, you can be calm. Fëanor and I will never fight like that again. We have ... matured.”  
“That is, **you** have matured. He will never mature. He’s still the same spoiled child that Finwë did not know how to educate in time ... and believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I was a spoiled child myself for most of my life.”  
“You were never a spoiled child. You were adorable!”  
“I was your only granddaughter until Gil was born: what are you going to say? But I was a nuisance as a child. And it was even worse when we went to Gondolin. My father treated me like I was his silmaril and all his knights imitated him. Certainly, the blind worship of Lómion as soon as he met me was not much help.”  
“I don’t think it was your fault ...”  
“Bold and ridiculous. Only when I saw death to my face did I become the female you always wanted to see in me. Grandpa, you have no idea of the stupidities, the banalities in which I wasted my time. Do you remember the famous secret tunnel I had built when I guessed the darkness in my cousin? It was Lómion who proposed that a secret exit be built in case one day the location of the city was discovered by our enemies. Tuor and I steal all the credit; but the best ideas always came from him. What on earth would I think of a secret exit? I was busy dancing in my hall of mirrors!"

Fingolfin remembered the image of the book in which Idril was dancing in a crystal lake. 

“Hall of mirrors?” He repeated, suspicious.  
“My father made them build it for me, so that I could see myself dancing”, she snorted, shaking her head. “Mirrors on the ceiling, mirrors on the walls, mirrors on the floor ... I was looking at my panties while the flames devoured our lands and you rode at the gates of Angband.”  
“Hey! We are not talking about that now, okay?” He stopped her, grabbing her hands again tightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Either way, you would not have been able to do anything. I'm glad to know that you were happy despite everything. Also, there are worse things than looking at your underwear when dancing.”  
“Yes, that others see it.”  
“Worse than that ... No, there's really nothing worse than that.”

They both laughed softly. 

Idril stood up and looked for an amphora of fresh water to serve his grandfather and took a seat closer to him, so that she could lean her head on his shoulder as she leaned. 

“Grandma was here a week ago. With Eärwen. They wanted to make sure we're going to the banquet at the Palace of Arts.”  
“You said yes, of course”  
“I told them I had to think about it. I don’t think the rest of the guests take well that Lómion goes with me and although he said I could go alone, I do not agree to leave him behind. I already left him behind many times and see how it turned out.”  
“I think it turned out pretty good if we refer to the present. Are you worried about what people say?”  
“Not at all! I decided to live here because I did not want him to have to endure the looks and the rumors ... and the offenses. Some of my father's knights were pretty rude to him after his release, " she recalled with a frown. “But in a personal way, I don’t give a toss what people say about me or him. I love him, grandpa, and that's enough to be happy by his side.” She pouted. “Well, a couple of kids would not hurt me; but Lómion seems to have something against breeding children.”  
“It's ... You know? When Maedhros and Fingon decided it was time to take their relationship seriously, I talked with my nephew. Talking to Fingon was a waste of time, as you know: he does what he wants and how he likes. In addition, my son already had everything he needed in his life: he did have a son and he was the crown prince. On the other hand, Maedhros ... I asked Maedhros if he did not want to have children, someone to leave his legacy ... After assuring me that Ereinion was like a son to him and that he did not care in whose womb he grew up, he confessed to me that for nothing of the world would condemn a creature to inherit his legacy. A son of his would always be the son of a murderer, of a Fëanorion and Maedhros did not want that burden on anyone. I think that's also why Maglor did not have children with Nemmireth in the First Age.”

Idril fixed her eyes on her own hands and kept silent for a few minutes. 

"So, do you think he does not want to have children so they will not treat them like he was treated in Gondolin?"  
“I suppose. And speaking of your husband, where is he?”  
“In the city. I mean ... in the workshops next to the port. In spite of his history, he is the best blacksmith of the neighborhoods, so many look for him. He has a lot of work lately. I think it might be partly due to Eärwen's influence, but it allows him to be busy and think less about the past. " The young woman looked at her grandfather and slowly, reached out to take his hand. “Are you going to tell me what happened with Fëanor? If you came here when I know on good ink that you barely show up in Tirion, it's because you're worried.”  
“It's nothing serious, honey. Only in Tirion I can hardly think and in my house ... an army lives in my house. You can’t think when someone constantly walks on you.”  
“You wanted a house near the Fëanorion”, she reminded him.  
“I still wanted it. It's just that ... Fëanor and I don’t always agree and sometimes it's hard to make him understand ...”  
“Why do you want to make him understand?”  
“Because I am right”, he declared firmly.  
“Wow! You sound just like him. You're right? Does not Fëanor think the same?”  
“This time he’s not, Idril.”  
“He wasn’t the previous time either. Or the other ... or the one before that ... but that doesn’t mean that he’s going to give in to your reasoning ... or that you are right.”  
“ Believe me when I say I am,” grunted Fingolfin under his breath.  
“I do not doubt it, okay? You usually are right; but, tell me, when was the last time that Fëanor accepted your criteria without further ado and bowed to your reasons?”  
“Never”, he admitted.  
“So, maybe the best way to reason with him is if you give in first a little. I know, I know”, she hastened to affirm when he opened his mouth to refute. “I know it's hard to give in when you're convinced you're right; but, you are the wise of the two.”  
“He is the smartest.”  
“He was called ‘skillful Finwë’; you, ‘wise Finwë.’”  
“The father's name is not prophetic.”  
“But it fits quite the reality in this case. Fëanor is intelligent ... and stubborn like a mule. He will never recognize that he is wrong. He will not come to apologize for whatever he did or said ...”  
“He does not really regret it.”  
“And you?”  
“Me what?” Fingolfin startled, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.  
“Do you regret it? Do you want him to repent?”  
“I'm not sure. I just know not ... that what he wants is not ...”  
“Talk to him. That’s my advice. Perhaps, when you two talk, you realize that your point of view is not the right one either. Perhaps neither of both is right this time ... or both of you are! Listen: when ... when Lómion came to Gondolin, I ... well, I was fascinated with him. He was tall and muscular, with those dark, piercing eyes ... and those tattoos he did not bother to hide: for me he was a new, different creature ... and I loved spying on him when he worked in the forge. Until one of my ladies noticed my interest and hurried to inform my father of the **sin** that was brewing under his roof. My father gave me a lesson about the inconvenience of my attraction to my cousin ... and he painted me such a horrible picture of what I felt that I convinced myself that it was something dirty, sinful, detestable. I walked away from my cousin. I shunned him ... hiding myself so as not to meet him in the corridors and if we happened to cross paths alone, I would run to avoid being by his side. That's how the rumors started that Lómion tried to attack me. The truth was that, despite everything said by my father, I still loved my cousin and when I mentioned it to someone I thought was trustworthy, she said it was a spell, that my cousin had used dark magic to provoke such insane desires in me ... because he wanted to seize the throne. When ...” She took a breath to continue, in a lower voice. “There was a time when Lómion found me alone, shortly after Tuor's arrival. He told me ... it was the first time he told me openly that he loved me and for a second, for the time it takes a sigh to leave the lips, I ... I let myself go by what I felt, right or wrong, witchcraft or not. _It was glorious._ The feel of his arms around me, his lips on mine, our hearts beating in unison ... and then I remembered what everyone said. I pushed him away from me, accusing him of wanting to corrupt me, of wishing my father's crown, of using his father's dark magic to deceive me ... At first I was not able to recognize his expression for what it was: stupor. Lómion couldn’t understand where I got such nonsense and for a few minutes when I just accused him and shouted at him, he watched me without moving ... until at last he reacted and shouted that I was stupid if I believed those rumors, that his father had not been a sorcerer, but a great artisan and a master in the magical sciences, that only a pampered little princess like me could say such stupid things. He left me there, baffled by his outburst: pampered little princess? Who thought that Avar he was? I talked a lot about him ... almost all bad and many repeated my words until they reached his ears. Lómion began to hate me as much as he loved me. I did not ... I thought I was right, you know ... and when ... when we were alone again and he accused me of being a liar, of spreading slander about him, I ... I rebutted him, assuring him that he was a criminal, his desires were infamous ... He said that then I was as infamous and dirty as he was ... because **I had enjoyed it when he kissed me**. Even more, **I had answered**. His words forced me to see inside me ... something that I was not willing to see at that moment. That's why I married Tuor. My father was anxious to please Ulmo’s ambassador and I wanted to flee from what my cousin provoked in me. When Tuor died, it was the first time that I was alone with me, with my thoughts ... and they turned to Lómion irremediably. I went to Mandos with the intention of being allowed to see him. Námo kicked me out. As expected, I insisted for months. Finally, Námo allowed me to visit Lómion: he said that I had the face to try anything and that if someone would sing him a damn serenade again, he would release all the balrogs he had in his prisons since Morgoth’s first fall. It was from that day that Lómion and I started talking. It took us a long time to admit that we were both wrong, that we had created a false image of the other and that we had left being confused by other’s opinions. There was nothing wrong with what I felt for him ... but I wasn’t the crystal and gold maiden he had idealized either. It was ... an interesting journey to get to know each other again and love us as we really are. Despite our many faults.”

Fingolfin had listened to her in silence, aware that he was certainly the first person to hear this confession from his granddaughter. Everyone had wondered when Idril decided that Lómion would be her husband; but nobody thought about asking Námo - it was not like the Soul’s Keeper was going to answer if they did, really. 

On one hand, the once High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth was relieved to finally see that his grandchildren loved each other and were happy together; but on the other, he wondered why Idril told him this. 

“I'm glad you got ...”  
“What I want to say is that it does not matter what anyone thinks. When you love someone, you should value what is most important: that person ... or the opinion of others. You and Fëanor are happy together. In other words, when you’re together it is as if you were **really** happy. You don’t need anyone else to complete your happiness. You complement each other, you two make the world work together. Like Finrod and Caranthir ... Aredhel and Celegorm ... Glorfindel and Ecthelion ... Grandma Anairë and Eärwen ... Fingon and Maedhros ... no, those two are very rare: it's as if one didn’t exist without the other”, he pointed with a grimace. “That should be prohibited by law. The fact is that I think you should look for your brother and get him to listen to you, come to an understanding with him.”  
“For all’s sake?”  
“For your own good. For your happiness. For your joy! I don’t wanna see you again like in Barad Eithel. I want you to remain the elf who returned from Mandos ... I want you to laugh and have fun ... and if Fëanor is an indispensable part of your happiness ... what the hell, there are worse things.”  
“As you see your underwear when dancing”, nodded Fingolfin.  
“Eh yes. And that your first meal causes indigestion to your husband. Speaking of which ...”

Fingolfin half turned in his chair to see Maeglin enter the kitchen. Aredhel's son stopped when he saw his wife accompanied; but upon recognizing the visitor, he rocked back and forth like an indecisive child. Idril stood up and with two small jumps came to his side. 

“Grandpa came to visit us”, she announced, smiling after planting a kiss to her husband. “And he liked my cookies.”  
"Very good," Maeglin agreed, and a smile danced on his lips as he raised a hand to accommodate a golden curl behind his wife's ear. “It's a pleasure to receive you, sir, " he added, turning to Fingolfin.  
“For Aulë’s beards, boy!” Fingolfin freaked out. “What way to treat your grandfather is that? Won’t you give me a hug?"

Maeglin looked at his wife as if asking her opinion and when she backed off, with clear intentions to leave him at his choice, he had no choice but to move in his grandfather's direction and let the hero of the Noldor wrap him in his muscular arms. The first few seconds, Maeglin tensed in the bear hug, trying to remember a time when his father hugged him like this without immediately beginning to recite the tune that ‘he was an Avar, the son of Eol, not a spit of the Golodhrim’. When he found out that Fingolfin only embraced him for the pleasure of showing affection to someone he loved, a sigh escaped his lips and he raised his hands to return the caress. 

Fingolfin leaned back without letting him go and stared at him with a proud smile. 

"We're going to work on this hugs, huh?”  
“I'm not used to it, sir”, he confessed.  
“I hate to be called ‘sir’. It's one of the reasons why I'm not going to the Court. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to return home: it's a long way on horseback.”  
“Okay.” Idril nodded, approaching him to kiss him on the cheek. “Leave before nightfall. And remember: sometimes we need to reevaluate our reason. Don’t be stubborn.”

When Fingolfin had left, Maeglin approached his wife and wrapped his arms around her waist to attract her until she rested on his chest. 

“Are you working as a counselor?” He asked with a half-smile.  
“Except for Maglor and our _perfect_ cousin Galadriel, I am possibly the only one of the Noldor who has had more than enough life to reflect on. I've learned a lot and I think I'm able to advice as well as cousin Finrod.” She pouted. “With less musicality, but I compensate with my cookies.”  
“Of course, darling,” Maeglin nodded. “Is there a problem?”  
“The typical arguments between grandfather and Fëanor. I have faith that this time they don’t end up in someone's exile. Now, my husband, how was your day?”  
“Interesting. Today was the day when ship-owners take their children to the workshop to see what work is like and decide if they want to follow their parents' path. I had a lot of children around me, asking questions, wanting to touch, screaming delighted when the iron folded ...”

Idril concealed the jubilant smile at noticing the fascinated expression of her husband when talking about teleri children.

“I guess they do not see many blacksmiths working in Alqualondë”, she said. 

Maeglin looked at her, still absorbed in the memories and suddenly, he leaned down to kiss her passionately. When the two gasped for lack of air, Maeglin muttered next to the red lips of his wife: 

“Let’s have a child, Itarildë.”  
“Now?” she puzzled, arching her back to look him in the eyes.  
“Well, I guess it will take a little longer to be born, right? A year at least”, he raised an eyebrow; “but we can start working on it now. If you agree. "

Idril took a deep breath, hoping to appease the heartbeat of her heart. Her cheeks flushed with excitement, she only nodded vigorously ... until Maeglin leaned forward to lift her into his arms and head for the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want an idea of how, more or less, I imagine Fingolfin with his "incipient" beard: look for Tonraq, father of Korra in "The Legend of Korra". The Water Tribe always makes me think of the Fingolfin House.


	6. Chapter 6

Nerdanel’s exhibition would be in two days and after much insistence on his part, Fëanor had agreed to attend. He knew that he would probably meet Fingolfin, since the she-sculptor had assured him that he accepted his invitation; but after almost a month without seeing each other, Finwë's eldest son felt able to be in the same place as his half-brother without thinking too much about his betrayal.

The thought drew a grunt of anger against himself. What treason was he talking about?   
Fingolfin had had a human lover - probably many lovers for almost five centuries in Middle Earth - but that was not a betrayal on his part. Fëanor detested the way his new feelings twisted - once again - his relationship with Fingolfin.

“A few more days”, he promised between his teeth. “A few more days and we can go back to being as before. I will bury this in the bottom of my heart and I will recover you.”

It was a good promise. It was the promise he wanted to make because the only thing he knew was that he did not want to go back to those years when Fingolfin was his enemy. Valar! It had been hard to reconnect with the brother he loved to lose him now. In the solitude of Mandos, before Fingolfin arrived, Fëanor had learned to long for his loved ones. He had not been allowed to see any of his parents after his death and Námo had only brought Fingolfin to him because it was part of an elaborate punishment plan.  
"Shit," Fëanor whispered, remembering the day the Judge told him he would be released.

 

_“I thought I would stay here until the end of Arda”, said Fëanor, observing the Death’s Vala with sarcasm._

_“For the All’s Father, why, in the name of the infinite stars, would I punish myself in that way? It is you who deserve to be punished, not me.”_

_Fëanor grimaced at the horrified tone of Námo, as if spending eternity with him was an unthinkable torture, even for a god._

_“But if you release me now, are you not ending my punishment?”_

_On this occasion, a smile curled the dark blue lips of the Vala, highlighting his morbid appeal._

_“How did you come to that conclusion? I free you, yes; but you're still being punished.”_

 

Fëanor wondered now if Námo did not foresee the change in his feelings for Fingolfin, if he did not see the despair and insecurity that his rejection would bring him ... and the despair at not being able to even get angry because Fingolfin was not rejecting him lacking love; but because he loved him too much ... as a brother.

The slight tug on his spirit made him stand up, alert. It had been years since he felt that call and despite himself, a flutter of butterflies in his stomach was the initial response.

He took a clean shirt from the closet and put it on, pulling his damp hair to fit over one shoulder. Without bothering to put on shoes, he followed the call, which kept pulling his soul almost playfully, tickling the deepest recesses of his mind, which he had only shown to one person. At that moment, he thought that many things had been overlooked: neither of them had taken an interest in the other's love life, worried only about crumbling fears and false threats.

_‘You never wanted me to be born.’_

_‘You wanted to rob my father.’_

_‘You left me to die.’_

_‘You stole the rights of my children.’_

_‘You never believed me worthy of you.’_

_‘You were always scared of me: the monster who murdered his own mother.’_

 

Fëanor stopped at the jetty, watching the silhouette that gave him his back. Fingolfin turned slowly and smiled at him with the same affection as always.

“I have a boat”, he announced with the expression of a naughty boy.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

They had paddled to the center of the lake in silence.

Like Fëanor, Fingolfin wore only a shirt of light cloth open halfway to the chest and cotton pants. His dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid that reached to his waist and he was also barefoot - his left foot adorned on the second finger by a simple silver hoop.

Fingolfin stopped the boat and secured the oars, then settled down to watch the calm waters.

Fëanor contemplated him without speaking. He had missed him so much! His voice, his conversation, the irony of his comments, the brush of his hands on his hair, the freshness of his skin ... that way his mouth twisted from the left side when he was trying not to make fun of his interlocutor, the way he cracked his knuckles before beginning a task - Fëanor could imagine him cracking his knuckles before his duel with Morgoth and the puzzled expression of the Dark Vala, like: ‘What the hell? Does this little wren think he's going to beat me with sticks?’ And he almost succeeded, what the heck!

“ I owe you an explanation.”

Fëanor was startled when Fingolfin's smooth voice interrupted his musings.

“You do not owe me anything at all”, he hastened to say. “I reacted in an excessive way to an unimportant matter. I had no right ...”  
“Of course you had no right to get angry like that”, his half-brother agreed; “but I want to give you an explanation ... because I feel like it and not because you deserve it. In this case, at least.”  
“Okay”, growled Fëanor, crossing his arms. He was not really moved by the idea of listening to Fingolfin sing the virtues of his human lover.   
“Hador was my lover.”  
“That I already know.”  
“Shut up and let me finish.” he ordered, raising an eyebrow. “As I said, Hador was my lover during his youth. He came to our court being just a fourteen-year-old child, so it wasn’t love at first sight or anything like that. Several years passed before I became interested in that way. Humans mature differently from ours, Curufinwë.”

Fëanor sighed surreptitiously to hear his Quenya name leave those lips.

“I read about that”, he admitted.  
“Then you already know that a human at twenty years has the same physical maturity as an elf at a hundred. Hador was beautiful and strong, full of life and eager to learn ... and that's what attracted me to him. I was tired already: I had seen enough death to long to learn something else. The only thing that interested me was to leave that life with my head held high, so that it would be worth everything we had gone through ... what I did do to our people. Hador breathed into me his joy of living. For a few years, the world was filled with colors once again. But it was short. He wanted more. He wanted things that I could not give him. He wanted a family, yes. And children who bear his name. But, above all, Hador wanted **recognition** , he wanted **freedom**. Although everyone suspected or knew of our relationship, I was High King. Proclaiming openly my love for a human vassal was out of the question. If we had both been elves, we would have lived like this for centuries, loving each other in the half-light; but Hador was human. Too many of their own had aged and died before my eyes so that I would not know how little time my beloved had to fulfill his dreams.”  
“So you pushed him away from you.”  
“I tried to make it as painless as possible ...”  
“For him, of course.”  
“It was **he** who mattered. The arrival of Gildis helped my ends. She was ... perfect. She came from the house of Bëor, Finrod’s vassals, and was a beautiful creature. Maybe some of our people don’t know how to value the beauty of human females; but I'm sure you would understand: they, like their men, are **alive**. They radiate energy, fertility, desire to love ... and Gildis, in addition, was an artist. Hador easily gave in to her charms. Do not misunderstand! He did not cheat on me or rush at her like a hungry puppy. However, humans love differently from us: they know that their time is short and in our eyes, they always go in a hurry. They pass from one love to another in less time than we elves have to get used to at the end of a relationship. I was happy for him. I had already started to move away from him in the hope that he would find a more convenient love elsewhere and seeing his heart lean towards Gildis was a relief.”  
"A relief that tore you apart," Fëanor realized, feeling in his own chest the pain of his brother.  
“Don’t see it like that”, mediated Fingolfin. “Hador was not my only lover.”  
“But it was the last one.”

This time, Fingolfin only turned his face to concentrate on the dark waters, strewn with stars. 

“Dagor Bragollach broke out barely forty years after his marriage. Hador died defending Eithel Sirion. I retired carrying his body. The years had turned his hair almost white and he was hardly a memory of the young man who once loved me; but for me ... for me he was the same. Nothing had changed: the corpse in my arms was my lover's.”

Fëanor swallowed to undo the knot in his throat. It was a terrible feeling: to be impotent. Observe the pain of the person who mattered most to him and to know himself incapable to alleviate it. He could not return him his lover. He could not erase despair or sadness. Fingolfin had lost Hador twice ... and never had hope. Now Fëanor saw it clearly: his brother never had any hope for that love. From the very beginning he knew that it was condemned: for the difference of race, for social demands, for war ... 

“You got mad when I told you that you could never understand what it was to love a human” Fingolfin continued after a few minutes; his voice so firm as if nothing. “You cannot understand it if you have not lived it, my brother. It’s a love that always hurts, even while you delight in it. It doesn’t matter if it is destined to end soon, like my romance with Hador ... or if you surrender to him with all your soul, like the marriage of Caranthir and Haleth. You always know that the day will come when you lose that person. Irremediably. Even when Hador married Gildis, I had not completely lost him: I could see him, recreate myself with his friendship, share his happiness ... but I knew he would leave me one day ... That certainty makes us selfish, hungry. You don’t love a human as you love one of our own, Curufinwë. You don’t waste entire seasons in romanticisms and spiritual jokes. You **devour** every second in their company. You cling with nails and teeth every time they give you their body. It is a voracious love, without patience, without hope. Who has not lived it, cannot understand it. Every time one of our people lost their lover in the war, they said to themself: ‘I'll find them on the other side’. But, what about me? What would I find on the other side more than emptiness and loneliness?”  
“Nolvo ...” Fëanor muttered, squeezing his eyelids.   
“But in that, as in so many other things, I was wrong. On the other side I found **you**.”

Fëanor felt his heart stop. Confused, he opened his eyes to find Fingolfin looking at him directly. The blue eyes gleamed with the light of the stars and Fëanor held his breath, waiting. 

“It wasn’t easy for me to admit how much I needed you all that time”, confessed Fingolfin, half-smiling with mockery of himself. “It wasn’t easy to confess to Námo that yes, I wanted to see you, listen to you ... try to recover you. But I'm used to not having the easy things. From my birth I had to compete with you, the _greatest of the Noldor_ , and now I was going to convince you that **you needed me too**. They were difficult years, remember, brother? We had so many wounds to heal ... and so many misunderstandings to clarify; but we did it. We met again.” He leaned forward to take one of Fëanor's hands in his. “We’ve defeated our worst enemies: ourselves. And we did it together. I can ... I could stand the loss of a lover. But I can’t bear to lose you. Not again. I will always be by your side ... and I want to be sure that you will be for me in the same way”  
“Of course I’ll, stupid boy”, Fëanor growled, going forward to put a free hand around his neck and force him to rest the forehead in his. “I will not leave you anymore. You are my best friend ... my only friend. You are my brother and my partner. I love you, Nolofinwë. I love you more than I would like to admit. I'm not willing to live without you either. It does not matter how ... it does not matter ... you are what matters, Nolvo. I love you ... in whatever form.”

Silence followed his words. They remained motionless, with their foreheads together and their eyes closed. Finally, Fingolfin moved slightly and pressed his lips against his older brother's mouth. Fëanor let out a moan of surprise and the other's tongue slid between his lips. Desperate, he responded to the kiss, losing himself in the warmth of the delicious cavity, savoring the experience with which his tongue was dominated and provoked. 

When Fingolfin stepped back, Fëanor stared at him, panting, trying to understand what had happened. 

"Precisely because I love you as much as you love me," Fingolfin began. "I'm going to be the first to give in."   
“What are you ...”  
“After Nerdanel's exhibition, we will come here, to the cabin ... and I will be yours. For one night.”  
“How ...   
“Until the sun comes up, we will be lovers.”

Fëanor finally understood what Fingolfin was saying and his whole body reacted violently to the possibility. With an effort, he managed to say: 

“You do not have to do that. If you do not want me, you do not have to give in to me just to keep the peace between us.”  
“I do want you”, admitted Fingolfin without embarrassment. “I want you as much as you want me; but you are my brother. I am not sure that this is correct ... or that my conscience will ever recover. However, I think it is better if the ghost of what could have been doesn’t obscure our relationship for all eternity. For one night, Curufinwë.”

Fëanor watched him, biting his lower lip. 

"And ... if you like it so much that you want more?" 

Fingolfin paled and his brother understood that he had not thought of that. 

“We'll see when we get there”, he managed to shrug. “You have to row back. Unless you want to come back swimming.”

Fëanor snarled softly.


	7. Chapter 7

The exhibition had been a success. The High King Arafinwë Ingoldo himself had gone to the Gardens of Temperance to attest to the magnificent talent of Nerdanel Istarwen Mahtaniel, the best sculptor of the Noldor. Almost the entire Court was present and even the Vanyarin ambassadors, as well as a few Teleri. Of course, the Sindar had also come, especially after Queen Melian showed her interest in finally meeting the celebrated artist.

It had been almost two thousand years since Nerdanel had exhibited one of his works and now it was presented with a whole garden full of wonderful sculptures that seemed about to come alive before the spectators. More than one jumped impressed when they found themself just below Aulë's hammer ... or stepped back with fear in their eyes as they stood before the hooded silhouette of Námo. However, two sculptural groups constituted the main attraction.

One was a family scene. A marriage sitting at the table: he explaining something while gesturing with one of his elegant hands and holding in the other arm a few months’ baby; she, carrying the other twin in her lap. Over the father’s shoulder, a boy with lively curls and attentive glance was leaning while a child of a few years and rebellious hair hugged his leg like a monkey. Behind the mother and with his head turned towards the table, was a teenager with braided hair raising the harp away from the reach of another child who leapt aided by his brother, between whose legs a gigantic dog was entangled. The work was called: "Testimony."

The second work in attracting attention was much more epic. Erect towards the sky, hoisting the enormous mace, was the Dark Vala. An iron crown in which three oval stones sparkled made him look taller. But although Morgoth's obsidian and iron image made a dreadful impression, it was, without a doubt, the other figure that caused the most admiration. Standing before the Dark Enemy was a warrior: he wore no helm, which lay abandoned at one end of the field and his left arm sank slightly by the weight of the shield. The wind ruffled his hair, unraveled his braids and his right fist twitched on the hilt of the curved blade. The title was "Resignation".

If the assistants stopped before the first one in disbelief, doubting that once the Fëanorion had been that wonderful common and ordinary family, before the second they stopped with the contained breathing, murmuring prayers and approaching to touch the image of the warrior.

By the end of the day, almost all the sculptures had been purchased, except those two, which were not for sale. Nerdanel was proud and satisfied. The day had passed just as expected, bringing pleasant surprises for all.  
Queen Melian took a beautiful statue of Lúthien dancing before Morgoth and the Vanyarin ambassadors would take to Valimar an image of Varda throwing the stars to the sky at the beginning of time. The teleri, on the other hand, had acquired among all a wonderful sculpture of Ossë and Uinen linked in an embrace between the waves. Finarfin had arranged for his sister-in-law to donate the sculpture of Fingolfin facing Morgoth for the Palace of Arts.  
When the artist, excited and eager to share her success, looked for Fëanor to propose that he keep the family scene, she could not find him.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Although present in the exhibition, Fëanor was hardly aware of what was happening around him. All the time, his eyes went in search of his half-brother, who - almost hidden in the shadows of a linden tree - tried to go unnoticed ... which was quite difficult when a portrait of him was part of the main attraction. On more than one occasion, Fëanor listened to his side as a young student or an absent-minded damsel let out a shriek of excitement and exclaimed: ‘Oh Elentári, it's him! It's King Fingolfin!’ And they ran to greet him. Some did not dare to so much and remained at a distance, watching gawking at Fingolfin; others bowed so much that they touched the ground with their hair ... and a servant girl vanished when she reached him, dropping the tray full of glasses of sparkling wine.

Fëanor could barely contain his laughter every time Fingolfin disguised a grimace of discomfort at the disproportionate displays of admiration.

Finally, Fëanor went to him and when they saw him, the intruders dispersed like frightened butterflies.

“Did you come to rescue me?”- Fingolfin murmured, with a pitiful tone.  
“Your life is a horror if it is always like that”, mocked the older, stopping in front of him to cover him from the eyes.  
“Fortunately, no. This only happens when they see my portrait and realize who I am. It was easier on Mandos, you know? Nobody approached me because they believed that I was crazy. Even the Maiar kept their distance.”  
“I think our youth is getting bolder every time. It's a miracle that Finarfin has not asked you to take public office. Something like ... leader of the Royal Army.”  
“There is no Royal Army. Which leads me to wonder how the hell we think to win Dagor Dagorath when the time comes.”  
“I think you're the only one who thinks about that”, shrugged Fëanor and approached one of the waiters dressed in green and white to take two glasses. 

The moment he returned to his brother, he noticed a trio of young women who squeezed themselves a few meters away, devouring Fingolfin with their eyes. 

"He's gorgeous," whispered one loud enough for Fingolfin to blush like a maid.  
“I thought the portraits were exaggerated; but it's ... wow!”  
“Can you imagine him dressed as a king?”  
“Can you imagine him **undressed**?”, muttered the taller one, making her friends laugh outrageously.  
“At least we already know why Prince Fingon is so beautiful”, said another with a malicious look.  
“And Gil-Galad.”  
“And the twins. They're still single, you know?”

Fëanor arrived with his brother and handed him the drink. 

“I think they're planning to hunt your ... exactly what are the children of the Half-elf of yours?”  
“Great-great-great-grandchildren”, recited Fingolfin carefully.  
“Is that a tongue twister? Where did you learn that word?”  
“Making genealogies”, he admitted before taking a sip of his glass. “This is not wine.”  
“It's some kind of drink that they prepare now. Combine fruit liqueurs with distilled spirits.” He took a drink. “I think.”  
“You don’t even know what we're drinking?”  
“Does it matter?”

A small commotion to their left forced them to turn around to see that two boys had joined the trio of admirers. Fingolfin shook his head and emptied his glass in one gulp. 

“By Mandos, I'm looking forward to this day's end.”  
“Also I”, confessed Fëanor, letting his eyes run down the face of his half-brother in a slow caress. 

For the umpteenth time in the day, Fingolfin blushed. Nervously, he raised his glass to his lips, only to find that it was empty. Fëanor held out his and when he took it, put his hand on her shoulder before sliding it through the lapel of the cobalt-colored tunic. 

“Curufinwë, not here”, warned Fingolfin, severe.  
“I'm not doing anything I did not do normally", raised an eyebrow Finwë's firstborn, amused.  
“You know it's not true.”  
“You know I like to touch you”, he replied, lowering his voice. “I have always liked to touch you. It is part of my character to demonstrate my affection in a tactile way. And it is also yours. You embrace your children and your grandchildren a lot. It was your fault that Fingon came of age without knowing how to comb his hair and it took Aredhel years to learn that it was not right to hug and caress all the males in his family: she almost got crazy to Turco and Curvo.”  
“It was your fault that I grew up believing that it was right to touch others”, Fingolfin grumbled. “It brought me many problems at the Academy.”  
“Really?” Fëanor half-smiled, without removing the hand that now played with one of the braids sealed with lapis lazuli beads.  
“Some of my classmates interpreted it as that I was seducing them.”  
“Poor innocent child” whispered his brother.  
“Ha ha. Funny. Stop touching me, Curufinwë. Our society is still quite puritanical about physical contact in public.”

Fëanor suppressed the irritated grunt and untangled his finger from Fingolfin's braid as he took a step back. 

“I'm impatient for the night to come”, he admitted. “I can barely wait to show you how much I love you.”  
“You don't have to. What are a few hours for someone who never thought he would have something?”  
“You're cruel to me”, he declared, biting his lower lip. “I always had a small hope that you would accept me.”  
“And I always had a small hope that you would not make me choose between being your brother and ... “ He pursed his lips, refusing to continue. 

Fëanor felt a pressure in his chest. Swiftly, he went back to Fingolfin and taking him by the cheek with his hand extended, forced him to look into his eyes. 

“You are not obligated to do this, Nolofinwë”, he declared. “I want you, yes; but I love you much more and I do not want you to suffer for my cause. I can learn to manage my feelings for you. I do not want you to sacrifice yourself just to satisfy my lust.”

Fingolfin watched him silently and after a moment, he raised a hand to wrap his fingers around his bare wrist. A soft smile curved his lips.

"You're a cheater," he murmured. “You can’t talk to me like that and hope that I don’t give in to whatever you want. You know exactly how to handle me at your whim, Curufinwë; you have always known.”  
“ I'm the only one who really knows you. And it also works in reverse.” He added, malicious. 

“Both are beautiful!”

The voice of the girl who wanted to see Fingolfin naked came to them at that moment.

“So similar and at the same time different,” commented a male whose insecure voice showed the change of adolescence.  
“Mhm ... Master Nerdanel should make a sculpture of them together: it would sell like the harvest wine.”  
“And more expensive than the black pearls of Alqualondë.”

Fëanor raised his eyebrows at Fingolfin's frown. 

"I have a feeling they are not thinking about putting that sculpture in the Public Library," Fingolfin muttered under his breath, provoking his brother's laughter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably warn you that this chapter has explicit sex and incest. There will be more in the future, so ... well, you know what to expect.  
> On the other hand, it had never cost me so much to write a sex scene, my God!

"Do you want us to go for a swim before we retire?"

The question, a few steps away from him, forced Fëanor to look up to find Fingolfin's outstretched hand and blue eyes watching him, sympathetic.

It was at that moment that he realized that he had not moved since he passed the threshold and on the contrary, was still standing in the middle of the room, squeezing in one hand the glass of wine that Fingolfin offered a moment before. At a glance, he saw that his half-brother had lit some lamps, submerging the room in a pleasant half-light and removing his boots even though he still wore all the party attire.

Fëanor hid the pout that was beginning to curve his mouth when he noticed his nervousness. He was behaving like a teenager on his first date, by Manwë’s balls!

“Curufinwë?”, Fingolfin claimed, raising his left eyebrow while opening his outstretched hand wider.

Fëanor contemplated the long elegant fingers and making a decision, raised a hand to catch them. Fingolfin smiled and went to the door; but instead of following him, Míriel's son pulled him towards his body.

Fingolfin stumbled and fell against his older brother's chest, resting a palm that was fully open on the V-shaped opening between the lapels of the crimson velvet tunic. He sensed the shudder that ran through the other male when he touched him and was about to retreat as if what happened frightened him; however, before he could react, Fëanor's free hand rested on the back of his neck and their mouths met in a soft, clumsy kiss.

Finwë's eldest son had never experienced such insecurity in the company of any of his lovers. When he still lacked sufficient experience, his curiosity and desire to learn had earned him many compliments and the assurance of a repeat of the meetings. But, of course, no one before had meant as much to him as Fingolfin.

With an anxious sigh, Fëanor moved away from the panting mouth that offered - for the first time - without reservations and descended with delicate kisses by the neck. His trembling fingers searched for the lapis lazuli buttons and became entangled with them.

Fingolfin gave a funny laugh when Fëanor cursed under his breath ... and immediately, a moan broke from his lips as he took a bite in the neck as punishment for his mockery. Fëanor straightened to watch him with flashing eyes of passion.

“You have two options”, declared the older in a hoarse voice, “you strip yourself ... or I destroyed your clothes.”  
“Better the first one of those: these are my only _suitable_ clothes”, he reminded to him, with a mischievous shine in the pupils.

Fëanor barely managed to release him without jumping in pursuit like a hungry beast. Fingolfin moved away just enough so that his brother could watch him without touching and with slow gestures, he began to undress.

Fingolfin had always been a show of balance and agility, even when they lived in the bland bliss of Aman prior to the release of Morgoth. He had the physique of a warrior, the elegance of a cat, the precision of an arrow, the subtlety of a sword ... and Fëanor had always enjoyed watching him move. Both he and Nerdanel had tried in vain to catch that fluidity in the images they made of him; but neither the bronze, nor the purest marble ... nor the most diaphanous glass equated the perfection of the elf that was now discovered in front of him.

He had seen him naked thousands of times. He had taught him to bathe, to dress ... to bandage his own wounds. He had rudely dried him when he refused to sit still. He had pressed himself against his body on the coldest nights and had pushed him under the water with his weight on the hottest afternoons ... and yet, tonight, Fingolfin was a new, unprecedented vision ... because he was _his_.

Fëanor followed with his eyes the path of the hands that pushed the tight pants by the hips, the long muscular legs ... until being a shapeless heap around the ankles adorned by a silver chain matching the ring on the toe. Fëanor's mouth went dry at the evidence that his desire was reciprocated and his own sex trembled into the oppression of the clothes.

“Valar”, he whispered, going through his body with a greedy look; “I love seeing you like that.”  
"I can tell," Fingolfin arched an eyebrow as he took his hands to the intricate pattern of braids on the back of his head - Fingon's work, no doubt.  
“Leave them”, Fëanor ordered, coming forward at last to put a hand on his chest and slide it slowly towards the belly. “I like them.”  
“Are you going to stay dressed?” claimed the younger, closing the eyelids when the fingers drew abdomen’s muscles and the triangle in which the pelvis was insinuated.  
“Not much longer, I assure you.”

With that statement, Fëanor bent down to lick the base of the throat. He suctioned slightly at the junction of the clavicles and deviated with gentle kisses until his lips caught a hardened nipple. A choked gasp welcomed his attention and, satisfied, he let his hands roam the sides of the torso, the angles of the hips, the roundness of the rear ... and back to the base of the rigid sex. He barely caressed the column of flesh and hunger, smiling around the second nipple when he heard Fingolfin's protests as his fingers sought the tension of the smooth testicles. Massaging the heavy sac, he straightened to look for the open mouth again. Fingolfin received him anxiously, biting his lips and invading his cavity with an expert and demanding tongue. 

"Get out of your clothes," demanded the youngest, pulling on his clothes until he removed the tunic from his belt embroidered in gold. “Or I'll tear your clothes, Curufinwë.”  
“What's the rush, love?” Fëanor provoked, rubbing against his body, aware that his own moisture stained his pants. 

Fingolfin threw back his head and watched him through the long curved lashes. 

“You don’t want me then?” He asked in a sensual murmur. “Don’t you want to hold me on my knees before you, taking me to the hilt?"

A shudder of anticipation stirred Fëanor's skin and nerves. They had talked about tonight; but at no time had they commented on exactly what would happen. For the first time, Fëanor **felt** reality: he was going to take Fingolfin. He was going to sink into his body and fill it with his seed.   
He tightened his eyelids and jaw, forcing himself to restrain the wave of pleasure that was about to overflow. 

“Lie down”, he ordered, turning away.  
“Here?” Fingolfin raised both eyebrows. “There's a bed, remember? "   
" Too narrow for tonight, " Fëanor reminded him as he unbuckled his belt. 

As he tossed his tunic into a corner and let go of his trouser ties, he watched starkly as his companion stretched out on the carpet, settling as far away as possible from the barely flaming fire. 

Fëanor gave a half smile when he noticed how Fingolfin's gaze stopped at his erection as soon as it was free of the restraint of the leather pants. Provocative, he slid the tips of his fingers across the hard mast, before closing his fist around himself and letting it run back and forth several times ... just enough for the first drops of fluid to spill and moisten the flesh. He stopped the caresses, sure he could not stand long if he continued to be observed that way.   
With an effort, he knelt beside Fingolfin. As soon as he did, he was surprised by the impetus with which his half-brother jumped on him, encircling his neck with his arms, sticking to his body, rubbing like a cat in heat, kissing him hard, pulling to force Fëanor to cover him with his weight. At first, Fëanor only responded to the desperate passion of Fingolfin, returning kisses and caresses ... until Fingolfin's hand closed around his sex and tried to guide him to his entrance. With a stifled exclamation of amazement, he pulled away from his mouth and grabbed his wrist tightly.

“What?” Fingolfin gasped, his broad shoulders trembling with restraint.   
“No hurry”, Fëanor assured, stroking the inside of the wrist with his thumb until he let go of his cock.   
“I thought you were mad about me”, said the other, turning his flushed face away. 

Fëanor leaned over to kiss the tip of his ear. 

"I am," he whispered before going through the internal laps with his tongue. “That's why I want to enjoy it. I want to know your body as only a lover can do it. I want to know what turns you on, what drives you crazy to the point of ignoring the pain and pleading more ...”  
“You won’t do it if you keep giving it long”, growled Fingolfin, facing him.   
“I will do it”, Fëanor smiled, smugly and raised a hand to caress his face. “You know I will, my beauty.”

To avoid another retort, he kissed him with sweet voluptuousness. Fingolfin did not resist, letting himself be carried until his whole being was a bundle of anxious nerves. Only then, Fëanor descended with tender caresses to kiss the juncture between his torso and his thigh.   
Fingolfin threw his head back, closing his eyes as Fëanor's mouth slowly explored his testicles and descended between his buttocks. He was going to remember tonight for all eternity, he realized with a tremor in his stomach and for the first time since he decided, he felt completely at ease with the idea of surrendering to Fëanor. A slight moan left his lips as Fingolfin felt the freshness of the tongue that proved his entrance. A few strokes later, the discomfort of the invasion ripped him from the lassitude in which he abandoned himself. For a second, he fought against the finger that was pushing and caressing. 

“Relax,” Fëanor suggested, kissing his hip. “You know I will not hurt you, my love.”  
“I know ... that you don’t ... want ... to hurt me.”  
“That's a breakthrough, is not it?” the older elf smiled.   
“That you don’t want it?” A moan cut his voice when the finger went to the knuckle and he arched himself, raising the back of the floor. “Or that I know it? Oh Eru!”  
“Both”, gasped Fëanor, fascinated by his reactions and added a second finger to the preparation. “All the damn stars, Nolvo! I could come just looking at you.”  
"If you do, I'm going to kill you, Fëanáro," Fingolfin roared, waving in possession with such impatience, that Fëanor wondered if he would not take all his fist inside him. 

Instead of responding with words, Míriel's son withdrew his hand, earning another threat and forced Fingolfin to get up on his knees to stand behind him. He grabbed the hip of the youngest with force and with the other hand, he drove himself inside.   
The first thrust took him almost halfway into the narrow passage. Fingolfin tensed, cursed loudly and bent to hide his face between his forearms. Fëanor took a few seconds to awaken from the painful pleasure it was to feel the pressure around his axis. Slowly, he withdrew and pushed a little more.   
Each new advance drew a moan from Fingolfin until an invocation to all the bastards Valar and a not at all decent mention of the father-in-common accompanied the onslaught with which Fëanor was completely encased in his body. For a moment, neither of them moved: absorbed in pain and need. 

“Nolvo ...” gasped the older one, swallowing dry, “I'm going to move now, love.”

The only response was a slight movement of the shoulders and slowly, Fëanor stepped back and moved forward, concentrating on causing as little pain as possible, until he was able to slide in and out with ease. A joyful moan came from his lips when Fingolfin's hips moved to meet his attacks. Soon after, the muffled moans of pain had moved into shuddering moans of ecstasy. 

Fingolfin raised his head and turned to look over his shoulder - the blue irises almost hidden by the dilated pupils. Fëanor bent down to kiss him voraciously, defying the growing rhythm of his lovemaking, while he wrapped an arm around Fingolfin’s waist to search for the hard sex. It took a moment to adjust the caress of his hand to the strength of his hips. Fingolfin's moan filled his mouth as his pleasure soaked Fëanor’s fingers. He held his brother firmly, looking for more inside him. 

Fingolfin clenched a fist on the carpet and pulled his other hand back to drive his nails into his lover's forearm. The understanding cut off his breath when a burst of pleasure rekindled his nerves numb from the recent orgasm. 

“I can’t ...” he breathed raggedly. “Stop, Fëanáro ...”  
“You never call me that”, said Fëanor, lost in the cadence with which he hit his partner's prostate, sure to unleash a new wave of ecstasy. “Don’t you like my maternal name?”  
“It's ... Fuck!”

This time, the muscular body folded back and Fëanor could appreciate the shudders that ran through the skin, unleashing flashes of power, as if the light of the first stars was released from Fingolfin’s spirit. The certainty of provoking such a reaction in the always-controlled Grand Prince of Tirion - and the demanding pulsation with which Fingolfin's sphincter held his axis - released the climax. His entire body, his spirit, his blood ... was submerged in a tide of liquid fire as liquid fire gushed from him, filling the entrails of his lover. 

 

Fëanor returned to himself with his face buried in the undone braids. The smell of Fingolfin filled his lungs and sent chills down all his nerve terminals. Sitting up halfway, he kissed the shoulder and the relaxed curve of the biceps before ascending to the curve of the maxilla. He rubbed his nose in the bushy line of black hair that reached the angle of his jaw and smiled against the sweaty skin. 

“What’s so funny?” Fingolfin demanded, revealing that he was awake.  
“You'll look older than me."  
“I've always been more mature, so ...”  
“ Yes, mature”, scoffed Fëanor and bit his lower lip. 

Fingolfin opened his mouth and advanced his tongue to challenge him with sensual licks. After a moment, they rolled on the ground, kissing passionately and caressing each other with avid hands. When Fingolfin - now astride his older brother - parted a little to look at his silver eyes, Fëanor said, breathless: 

“More. I want more from you. I want ...”  
“Take it.” Fingolfin invited him, moving on top of his half hard sex with cadenced circles. “Take everything from me, Fëanáro. For tonight, make me forget even who I am, who you are ... Make me forget that there will be a sunrise."

Fëanor fought the knot in his chest, telling himself that later he would think of the pain of not having Fingolfin. Now ... now it only mattered that he must convinced Fingolfin that this was his destiny and that only in Fëanor’s arms would he find peace and happiness. 

He pulled him back to his chest and brushing his parted lips parted with his, promised:

“The only thing you will be able to remember will be how much you need me within you.”


	9. Chapter 9

The wedding of the Crown Prince, firstborn of the High King of the Noldor, was destined to be one of the most memorable events in the new era in Tirion. The younger ones dared to assure that the festivities would overshadow the memory of the wedding of Finwë and Indis.

“It's the biggest nonsense I've ever heard in my life. Do not they teach History to these boys nowadays?” Fëanor grumbled.

Nerdanel smiled without raising her head and continued pressing pieces of clay to the metal frame to model an image of Nessa: between her hands, the Valië appeared resting on the tip of one foot, while arching backward, the hair waving at the rhythm of her slender body. The one-foot-tall model was almost finished and the artist concentrated on rounding out the "Dancer" forms.

“All the young people think that their time will surpass that of their parents “, she commented after a moment, turning to see him before the table separating the pieces of metal.  
“No wedding party, although Arda is remade, will overcome the opulence of my father's wedding with Indis. Did someone remind those children that Manwë and Varda descended from Ilmaren to bless the union? Our adorable Crown Prince "lord of the caverns" will not have the kings of Arda blessing his marriage.”  
“He will have three High Kings, Fëanáro.”  
“Our son also had them”, replied Fëanor, straightening from his work to look over his shoulder.  
“True.”  
“I envy you for having lived that moment”,he sighed, with a quiet voice. “Not that Fingon would have been my first choice for Nelyo to marry; but it would have been nice to see him happy again. I do not remember having seen him happy since long before my death.”

Nerdanel let her fingers run smoothly over the clay figure, moved by the tone of her husband's in the bliss of Aman, before the darkness. More than the sadness she could detect - and that was present, no doubt - what affected her the most was the defeat in Fëanáro Þerindion’s voice. The defeat was a concept that hardly anyone would associate with the elf in question. Fëanor was impulsive, creative, the most intelligent of the Sons of Ilúvatar ... and the most powerful in mind and body. Nerdanel had seen him bend steel bars with bare fists and walk without fatiguing distances that would have made Oromë frown. In the past, Fëanor would never have admitted that any task surpassed him ... and Nerdanel was certain that his death was the first time he was overcome by the situation.  
In his youth, Mathan's daughter had loved the unstoppable force that was Curufinwë "Spirit of Fire"; but that childlike and passionate admiration had been consumed by the many shortcomings that later found him. Now, on the other hand, Nerdanel found that - contrary to what many thought, including her own father and King Arafinwë - Fëanor had matured and perhaps - just perhaps - she thought it would be much easier to love this Fëanor.

“Our son is happy now and you can see him every day”, said Nerdanel and as she returned to work, she added: “And Fingon is a good boy.”  
“I do not argue ...”  
“Like his father.”

The reply remained unspoken when Fëanor closed his mouth again. His hand stopped on one of the fragments of metal, barely touching it, and a shudder rose up in his skin as in his mind he repeated every image of last night in the cabin.

One week. A week had passed since his meeting with Fingolfin, and not for a second had memories left him. He could still smell the sweat of his half-brother on his skin, taste his mouth and his sperm, feel the drawing of muscles and limbs in the tips of his fingers ...

With an effort, he ignored the growing excitement that the memories provoked and returned to concentrate on classifying the fragments of metal for the statue of Nessa that Nerdanel designed.

“I understand that tonight there will be a kind of party for Finrod”, he said.  
“Ah yes”, half smiled the sculptress. ” It's a fairly recent tradition and I think his brothers have been looking forward to celebrating it for him. It's ... well, they celebrate the last night of the future husband's bachelorhood.”  
“It's in the Lakes of Pleasure”, Fëanor said, raising his eyebrows. “We did not do that in my time.”  
“I think it was brought by the last sindar and laiquendi who arrived in Valinor. Only the single relatives and friends of the groom are allowed to attend.”  
“Eh ... Maglor and Curufin are invited.”

This time it was Nerdanel who stopped her work altogether, as if considering the answer. Fëanor turned his torso to observe her.

“It's ... I guess nobody has explained it to you. Since many marriages were held as political alliances in Middle Earth ... and many celebrated in Aman before the Exile had been the fruit of tradition, a new law has been enacted among the elves of Valinor. It's ... well, it has as base the ‘Law of Finwë and Míriel’ .”  
” My mother chose not to return among the living” frowned Fëanor.  
“That's why it has it as a base; but it is not exactly the same. It is considered that all the unions in which at least one of the two has died are officially dissolved. Both members of the couple can choose new paths and even marry again because, the Valar have agreed to death cut the existing link. There are also those who have renewed their vows, no matter how their union began. Turgon and Elenwë, for example, renewed their marriage vows once he was reincarnated. Curufin and Laikamírië decided to end their bond and she has remarried a matter of two years.”

Fëanor listened to her perplexed. 

“That is, Maglor and Nemmireth are living in concubinage” he whispered, absorbed.  
“Since she died during the Battle of the Sudden Flame, yes.”  
“But then ... that means that ... my brother is not married to Anairë”, he continued, as if the question were slowly penetrating his brain.  
“Neither Irissë with Lómion’s father. Tyelkormo is lucky.”  
"I hope he does not screw it up this time," Fëanor murmured; but his mind kept turning on the same subject. 

Free. Fingolfin was free. Free ... like himself.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

_Fëanor opened his eyes, still feeling the languor of the last orgasm in muscles and nerves. He had stopped worrying about maintaining control or being delicate - or spectacular - many hours before, when Fingolfin's moans of pleasure filled the air of the room until he lost the notion of reality. With a shudder of delight, he buried his face in the pillow, inhaling strongly the aroma of his lover and immediately, his body reacted.  
A slight caress on his shoulder told him to turn around, exposing without shame the effect that Fingolfin's smell had on him. _

_Fingolfin was sitting on the edge of the narrow bed - where they moved somewhere between the carpet and the shower - and held a glass of water in front of his brother._

_“You need to drink something”, Fingolfin said in a hoarse voice and a lazy smile played on Fëanor's lips when thinking about the cause of his hoarseness. “Stop looking at me like you want to devour me and drink the water.”  
“Pooper”, the older elf growled and sat down to remove the glass from his hand. He emptied the contents of a blow and set the glass on the table beside the bed before turning in front of Fingolfin and with a mischievous smile, plunging a hand in his hair to draw him to himself. _

_“Curufinwë ...”  
“No”, he silenced him by biting his lower lip. “I know sun I up: do not remind it me. Let me touch you one more time. Let me savor again the glory of having you in my arms, my love.”_

_Fingolfin's blue eyes glowed with myriads of stars and, lowering his eyelids, he gave himself to his kisses with docility. Fëanor devoured his mouth slowly, delighting in the softness with which it opened and surrendered. He pulled him to force him to lie on the narrow mattress._

_Despite his initial protest, Fingolfin barely wore a robe to cover his nudity, so Fëanor only had to open the piece to rediscover the exquisite anatomy that the night before adored until delirium. Ecstatic, he found that Fingolfin was still wet and relaxed after the long night of passion, and without any preparations, he placed himself between his thighs and penetrated slowly, savoring every inch that brought him closer to glory._  
_Beneath him, Fingolfin arched, offering more to his invasion, going to meet him as he gave his throat and chest to the hungry mouth that marked him again ... and again ... until neither of them was able to do anything more than ramming and panting.  
The orgasm shook them in unison: a fountain piercing the belly of both; another, baptizing the entrails of the younger. _

_They remained embraced - Fëanor resting on Fingolfin's chest; the younger's legs around his brother's waist and his arms on Fëanor’s shoulders - until his breathing normalized. Fëanor raised his head and pressed a kiss into the hole between his collarbones._

_“I love you, Nolofinwë”, he whispered. “If you leave me, I'll make you happy. There will not be a second when I do not show you how much I care ...”  
“Midwinter “, Fingolfin interrupted. _

_Fëanor moved away slightly to observe him leaning on one elbow._

_“What ...”_  
_“I want to be sure ... I want both of us to be sure that this is what we want.” explained the once lord of Hithlum, slowly, looking him in the eyes. “What you want is not something that can be taken as an affair. It is not my nature, Curufinwë; it is not my nature to break the laws without reason. You are ... you are the most important thing in my heart with my children and grandchildren; but that does not mean that I will sacrifice my ideals, my principles to please a whim of yours. That ... never again, brother. If I decide to be your lover, it will be because our romantic love is greater than the brotherly love ... because neither can live without the other in this way. And we won’t hide. Our relationship will not be a shameful or dirty secret to hide.”_  
_“Midwi ...”  
“In Midwinter I’ll give you my answer and you’ll decide if you still love me as you say.” _

_The calm with which he spoke - as if it were a new system of irrigation for the fields instead of the happiness of both - ignited the heart of Fëanor even more. Impulsively, he took him by the face with one hand and kissed him with force._

_“I swear to you that, regardless of your decision, I will always love you like that. My happiness is in your hands and if you choose me as a lover, there will be no force in the world ...”_  
_“Ssshhh.” Fingolfin's fingers interposed between their mouths, pressing lightly on Fëanor's parted lips. Throwing his head back, he looked at him with a half-smile. “Have you not heard what they say, my brother? ‘Do not respond in anger, do not decide in pain ... and do not promise in passion.’ Let's take a few weeks of calm to ... reflect on this night. Is it really what you want for yourself? Am I really what you want for you?” As Fëanor opened his mouth to respond, Fingolfin hastened to add: “Or is it just another way of expressing your newfound affection for your brother? Tell me, Curufinwë, do not you love me as a brother and a friend?”_  
_“Eru Ilúvatar knows I do”, he roared, sitting up to leave the bed. “Do not twist my words, Nolvo: you are an expert in doing that.”_  
_“Some advantage I should have on you.”_  
_“Not in this case. Yes, I love you as one loves a brother. Since my release from Mandos, I have tried to love Findis and Lalwen in the same way that I came to love you in the Timeless Halls; but although I have learned to appreciate them, although I understand our older sister and I love Lalwen more than I ever thought I could ... they cannot match you in my heart. You know you were always my favorite when you were a child. You know that nobody understands me like you ... and nobody sees me how you do ...”_  
_“With your faults and virtues.”_  
_“With my faults and virtues”, he nodded. “You are and you have always been my only friend. When we parted, I was left alone with my children and Father's partial and charged with guilt love. Nobody ever looked at me like you. No one forced me to see the reality of myself again. Yes, Nolofinwë, I love you as a brother and as a friend ... but I love you too as my partner. Before, in our first life together, a carnal thought directed to you never crossed my mind.”_  
_“It would have been weird ... and perverted. You were two hundred years older.”_  
_“I did not know you at all. As soon as you became an adult and you looked for a path different from mine, I felt betrayed, abandoned also by you. Now ... now I am sure that if we had followed as usual - living together, cooperating, laughing, challenging ourselves to be better, dreaming together - also in the bliss of our first existence I would have come to love you as I do.”_

_Fingolfin swallowed and quickly, looked away from his older brother's eyes. Fëanor saw how he breathed to calm the agitation his words provoked._

_"That would have destroyed us, my brother," he declared at last. “And I would not have tolerated losing you because of me. I never resigned myself to having lost you. Let's not think about what could have happened and it was not: it is a world that doesn’t exist ... or that exists only in our assumptions.” He turned as he got up on his knees and placed an open hand on Fëanor's chest.” In Midwinter we will have the answer to our destiny together, Curufinwë; but you must promise me that, whatever our decision - both yours and mine - nothing will separate us again ...”  
“Whether you choose to be my lover or if you choose to be only my brother, I promise that I will be by your side, Nolofinwë”, Fëanor said solemnly, stroking his cheek with the back of his hand. _

_A shudder ran through the always fresh skin of Fingolfin, who smiled nervously._

_"It's incredible how easy it is for us both to turn a night of sex into an event similar to the creation of Valinor," he said mockingly. “What pair do we do.”_  
_“Yes, what a pair of idiots who swear oaths and challenge gods.”  
“And steal boats.” _

_Fëanor frowned._

_“What does that have to do now?”_  
_“I don’t know; but everyone seems to associate stolen boats with me.”_  
_“I thought it was me who stole boats.”_  
_“But everyone remembers the tall guy with the beautiful blue eyes.”_  
_“You were three feet the first time you stole a boat.”_  
_“ **You** stole a boat.” _  
_“For you.”_  
_“I wanted to see the stars, not a boat.”_  
_“How did you pretend to get to Tol Eressea? Flying?”_  
_“Well ... “_  
_“By the way, what do eagles have with your family? That is, Fingon in Thangorodrim, your body being rescued, Gondolin protected by the eagles ...”_  
_“Good relations: that's what we have.”_  
_“Good relations with eagles? Now you will tell me that you speak ‘eaglish’ .”_  
_“I speak what? Stop inventing words, Curufinwë . Luckily, you did not accept that counseling job at Lambegolmor or nobody could understand our children.”_  
_“And you say it ... Mr. ‘travesician’ .”_  
_“Hey! He was a traveling musician. And I was ten years old.”_  
_“Prestones.”_  
_“You said they were semiprecious stones.”_  
_“Statillars.”_  
_“They were pillars shaped like a statue: pillars ... and statues. I thought about it a lot.”_  


__//______//_______//________//________//_ _

“Fëanáro?”

He looked up to find Nerdanel peering at him from his desk. 

“You are smiling.”  
“What?”

**True.** Fëanor felt the curve of his own lips and the soft joy that flooded his spirit as he recalled the night with Fingolfin. For a second he wondered if his brother would feel the same ... or if at that moment he regretted what happened. He had not looked for Fingolfin in any way. He wanted the decision to come to him to be born from the heart of the other, not from his insistence. 

“What's wrong with Midwinter?” He asked suddenly and noticed that a soft blush colored Nerdanel’s cheeks.  
“It's ... a party. A party that the Exiles brought back to Valinor and that ... was celebrated by the Avari for thousands of years. It is the longest night of the year. The Kemendili used to celebrate it here; but in a more ... restrained way.”  
“You never attended a Kemendilion celebration, right?” raised an eyebrow Fëanor . “There was nothing **restrained** in those parties.”  
“Well then, more discreet. The fact is that now it is almost a national holiday although many celebrations are held in private.”  
"Essentially, it's a whole night of debauchery and passion," he said half-smiling, wondering why Fingolfin would have chosen that date exactly.  
“It's ... a feast of fertility.”  
“It's in the middle of winter.”  
“To guarantee that fertility will return with the thaw and the arrival of spring. Already the Valar do not control the seasons as before: now, nature continues its course and in previous years spring has delayed, the land has not been generous, the harvest has been poor and the winter hard.”  
“The Valar do not fix that?” Fëanor frowned. “They have enough power to ...”  
“I do not know why they do not. Talk to Findis or your brother about that. The fact is that many rituals of the Avari have returned to be celebrated with a marked religious sense: more and more are those who turn towards the Kemendili beliefs. Long before the Reborns returned to Tirion, the Ingolmor had gained strength among us as well: their search for purely scientific solutions to our growing difficulties is very popular among the youngest. But almost everyone participates in the festivities, either by faith or by the freedom of enjoying them.”

“In essence, it is a feast of fertility”, declared Fëanor returning to the main theme; but, promising himself that he had to find out more about those difficulties his people were suffering and the inactivity of the Valar. “In other words, it is a favorable date for births, commitments ... and marriages.”  
“It's an auspicious date, yes”, the sculptress nodded, shaking her head. ”It surprises me that Findaráto has not chosen that date for his wedding after having waited so long.”  
“I guess Amarië got tired of waiting:s he could not bear another month of drinking tonics for ...”  
“Fëanáro!”  
“What? Do they also not talk about birth control in Tirion? I remember that the venerable Indis gave a talk about her two daughters when we were still _pure of soul and thought. “_  
“You're impossible”, Nerdanel complained, unable to contain the laughter.  
Fëanor grimaced at her as he drew with his fingers an obscene gesture that only caused more laughter to the female.  
"So," he said after a few minutes, "are we still giving eachother rings as a symbol of commitment or have we passed to new traditions?”  
“Some make much more ... flashy gifts; but the ring game is still the most popular gift. Now that you mention it, bracelets have gained much popularity among same-sex couples. Or share a pair of earrings. Some heterosexual couples have also adopted the practice; but to a lesser extent.”  
“Interesting. And a relief to know that there are other options: the rings have never been my forte”, he confessed with a pout and turned to concentrate back on the pieces of rough metal he classified. “Although this time I think I'm capable of forging a decent enough pair.”

As he turned away from her, Fëanor ignored Nerdanel's pallor, which was quickly replaced by a vivid blush staining her face and neck as a smile curved her lips.


	10. Chapter 10

“Does not it intrigue you to know exactly what they do at those parties?”

Maedhros met Fingon's gaze in the mirror and shook his head.

“I know exactly what they do”, he turned on the stool to face him. “And you too.”  
“We did not have one of those”, Fingon reminded him, wrinkling his nose.

A warm sensation filled the chest of the Fëanorion: sitting in the middle of the bed with his feet flexed in front of him joining the plants and with that disgusted expression, Fingon reminded him of the little boy who slipped into his room thousands of years ago, mocking the vigilance of the parents of both. Maedhros knew that he had begun to fall in love with his cousin the very day he threw himself at him from the branches of an apple tree and the then-adult ‘Third Finwë’ found himself with a mess of dirty clothes, scraggly curls and huge blue eyes in his arms.

“I do not see how it would have been possible”, he said with the tone of an adult lecturing a child. “Your family and my family are the same: we would have ended up at the same party and that is not the goal.”  
“You could have left with your brothers and I with our cousins. Also, Gil would be on hand, as would Elrond's twins. And Ecthelion and Glorfindel classify as a family at this point.”  
“Seriously?” Dark brows Maedhros frowned, heading to the bed. “Why would I play the most boring of the two parties? At the time of our wedding, Maglor was still half gone from the pot, Celegorm barely did anything but sit at the feet of your sister and behave like Húan, Curufin has always been the worst at parties and the twins were not separated anymore of half a meter one of the other. No, thanks, I do not want a party like that in my memory.”  
“You forgot Caranthir: he's great after two bottles of wine. He becomes talkative, is a good dancer and has an incredible sense of adventure. In addition, he sings incredibly well. People don’t know that Caranthir is the best of your brothers.”  
“And the only one who considers himself totally and irreversibly married. And widower, " he reminded him as he extended a hand to accommodate a black curl behind Fingon’s ear adorned with a gold and ruby ring: in the left ear of Maedhros appeared the pair of the earring, with a zafir set.

“Oh yeah. No single. Pity.” Fingon looked down at his hands around his own feet and twisted his mouth, sticking his tongue slightly between the teeth. “Don’t you think we should do something for him? Accompany him from time to time, I mean. He is alone. Among all of us, he is the only one who is alone.”  
“No he's not. He has his job, he has the children ... and Lalwen is a good company for him.”  
“The most promiscuous female and the chastest male in Elven history: what a good combination, Russo.”   
“They have a good time, Finno”, smiled the redhead taking off his shirt before settling on the bed next to his husband, who did not change his position. “Lalwen is ... more sensitive than she appears.”  
“And Caranthir is softer than he lets on. I know that since I was a child: he was wonderful with me. Unlike other conceited and complacent Fëanorions that did not tolerate the presence of minor cousins without the ability to memorize seven books in a day.”  
“What I did not tolerate was your lack of attention in the lessons.”  
“They were boring! You were boring!”  
“Elrond and Elros did not think so.”  
“You didn’t teach them the same way as me! You locked me in a room full of old parchments and you talked for hours: you were in love with your own voice! And when you got tired of killing me with boredom, you were going to fool around with the girls in the service! If I had measured thirty centimeters more, I would have hit you until you were unconscious.”  
“Seriously?” Maedhros raised an eyebrow, settling with fingers interlaced under the nape. “And have you would left me lying on the floor of the studio?”

Fingon had turned at last and was now leaning slightly on him, leaning on one arm. The corner of his mouth rose barely perceptible at the question of his husband and slowly descending, he put his mouth close to Maedhros'.

“I would have done what I did the first time I defeated you in the fight.”He murmured next to his lips.  
“And what was it?” the elder asked, feeling the heat spill inside him. “I can remember ...”  
“I straddled your hips”, Fingon reminded him, joining the action to the word. “And I kissed you until you lost your breath.”

Maedhros opened his lips to receive the kiss. As on that occasion - which he remembered very clearly - Fingon began the caress with slow circles of the tongue inside his mouth, exploring and tasting. Also like that time, the Fëanorion lost patience and sinking a hand in the hair of his cousin, returned the kiss with voracity, standing to stick his torso to Fingon, pushing the pelvis to make clear the effect that the situation had on both .  
When finally they parted, panting, Maedhros rested his other hand on his partner's hip and pressed his cheek against his.

“I've always wondered where you learned to kiss in that way being just a kid.”

The malicious laugh shook the shoulders of Fingolfin's son.

“As I said, not all my cousins were so little patient with me: some were wonderful.”  
“What ?!” Maedhros shouted, leaning back to look at him in the eyes with incredulity. “I can’t believe that Caranthir taught you to kiss!”  
“Very good kisser: another quality that add to your list of virtues”, Fingon nodded, thoughtful.   
“And you never told me! Neither of them told me!”  
“You didn’t ask.”  
“That's definitely something I should have known!”  
“Really, Russo? It bothered you I talk to other people: how could you react if I told you that your brother taught me to kiss?”  
“I was going to be furious; but not ... "He broke off when he noticed the skeptical gaze of Fingon, who leaned back and crossed his arms over his broad chest, accentuating the muscles. “Yes, I was going to be very jealous and furious with Caranthir for touching you, and with you for kissing someone else. Tell me the truth: did you like it?”  
“If we talk about technique ... yes. As tactile experience was good ... “  
“I cannot believe it”, Maedhros snorted, turning his face to the side.  
“Hey, idiot”, Fingon called him, taking him by the chin to turn his face in his direction. “Russo, look at me.” Maedhros kept his eyelids low, like a sulky child. Fingon grimaced and pressed his fingers to his chin. “Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion, I said to look at me.”

Maedhros obeyed: when Fingon was set to plan "High King of the Noldor", his cousin could not help becoming a puppy eager to please him. 

“What?” He barked under his breath, resisting the whiplash of excitement that Fingon's attitude unleashed.   
“I said that "as a tactile experience" it was good to kiss Caranthir. He knew why I asked him to teach me and I knew what I wanted even at that moment. You know that I was never the most virtuous of our family: I like to have sex and I am attracted to females and males alike. You were my first love; but not my first lover: that you also know ...”  
“You were too young ...”  
“It was old enough to excite you and to know what was going to happen between us! Yes, I searched elsewhere for what you denied me; but I always knew that I would come back to you. Every time I met someone new that aroused my interest, every time I found pleasure in another person ... I always knew that my heart belonged entirely to you alone, Maitimo. And you know it too.” They held their eyes for a few seconds. “You know that I chose you from the moment I assaulted you at the entrance of my house.” He eased the pressure on Maedhros's chin to stroke his cheekbones and nose with the tip of his finger. “It's ridiculous that I have to remind you at this point of our life; but, there goes: I love you, Maitimo. I love you with all my being, with all my spirit and my body. I love you more than life itself and I have never repented or will regret my choice. You are my choice until the end of Arda and beyond.”

The jealousy that strangled Maedhros' soul disappeared, consumed by the fire that Fingon's words aroused. Yes, there’d been lovers on both sides. For a long time, Maedhros had considered his cousin too young and sought in other bodies to soothe a desire he felt guilty of ... until he discovered that another had taken what he thought was **his**. He remembered the anger and despair when he saw the light in those blue eyes, seeing the possessive look of Egalmoth perch on Fingon ... He remembered breaking into the bedroom where both lovers indulged in caresses and had thrown the half-naked young guard into the corridor before pouncing on Fingon and possessing him until he was unable to move at all. He remembered the horror of himself when he realized that what facilitated his entrance into Fingon's body was precisely Egalmoth's semen, which otherwise would have hurt his cousin more than he had imagined ... but when he moved away to hiding his shame, Fingon had held him in his arms, kissing him with passion, muttering in a languid-of-pleasure voice: "more, please," and then there was no turning back. Although there were other love affairs in their lives, Fingon and he were tied together, united beyond the formality of vows or nights of lust. Even when Fingon told him he would have a son - that he had not planned it; but apparently the girl did - Maedhros did not feel threatened: nothing would steal Fingon's love from him. The torments of Morgoth and Sauron had not done it: no elf - lover or son, female or male - would get it either. 

Maedhros sat up to kiss him in the mouth; but Fingon slipped away and put his fingers on his lips.

“What do you say after me?”  
“I love you”, growled the son of Fëanor and licked the fingers before touching them with the teeth. “I love you with everything I am. I have loved you since I saw you for the first time and I felt sick because it was your image that woke me up in the middle of Telperion hard of desire. I belong to you, Findekáno and I know that you belong to me. Until the end of Arda and beyond.”

A warm glow poured into Fingon's eyes and a smile curved his fleshy lips as he leaned over his husband. 

"Much better, my husband," he whispered before kissing him with voluptuous circular movements. “Now you can claim what is yours.” 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

“You know I'm going to still be jealous, right? "

Fingon modulated a murmur of assent against his chest. Maedhros pressed him against himself, reminiscent of the time when he did not have him. No happiness could make him forget the pain, the desperation of losing Fingon. Gothmog's ax had sunk into his chest at the same time as the head of his beloved. 

“Stop thinking about that”, complained Fingon. “It is a frightening image after such a magnificent orgasm.”  
“I'm sorry”, laughed Maedhros and took his face with one hand to force him to offer his mouth. Before their lips met the door of the bedroom burst open and Fëanor filled the doorway while announcing, exultant: 

“We are going to marry!”


	11. Chapter 11

Fingon was the first to react to the untimely entry of Finwë's eldest son. Disengaging from his husband's embrace, he sat down on the bed - not caring about being completely naked and suspicious of fluids moistening his chest and flat abdomen - and said with a raised eyebrow:

“I hope you refer to my father and you. Because I'm already married ... and with your son that would be ... spooky.”

Fëanor gave him a disdainful look from above and a flash illuminated his silver eyes when he saw his condition.

“ You're not my type even if you were available and I do not have as bad taste as you.”  
“Hey!” exclaimed Maedhros, who before sitting down pulled the sheet to cover himself. “I'm your son! You could pretend that you consider me the most attractive elf in the world.”  
“You are.” Fingon reassured him.  
“ Thank you, love.”  
“Not true”, made a face Fëanor. “You have too many freckles and very long legs.”  
“Explain to me how I'm not your type”, Fingon intervened, avoiding the replica of Maedhros, “when you want to marry my father.”  
“Why settle for a bad copy when I can have the original?”  
“Good point.”  
“You're not a bad copy”, defended Maedhros.  
“Yes, you are”, insisted Fëanor. “You lack stature, you're too cute and you do not have that majestic air that Nolvo has.” He returned to study his nephew with an almost scientific look. “Although you have improved a lot in these years. You seem more ...”  
“I am more…”  
“Enough!” Maedhros exclaimed and stood up while throwing the sheet over his husband's head, covering him completely. “Father, please, let us get dressed and we will talk calmly about this topic. I am convinced that you have not had the delicacy to ask Fingolfin if he wants to marry you.”  
“ Eh ... I have not had time.”  
“Don’t ask him!” Fingon shouted from under the sheet. “He will find some stupid excuse for not accepting.”  
“Stupid as they are brothers?” demanded Maedhros.

Silence followed his question. Fingon removed the sheet and held it over his shoulders, closing it around his neck.  
Fëanor stirred in the place, knowing that his son was right.

“ Technically ...” he began to say softly.  
“Give us a minute to get presentable and we'll talk about this slowly, dad”, Maedhros asked again.

Fëanor nodded and went out, closing the door behind him.  
Maedhros turned to Fingon, who held his gaze and then said, with the same professional tone as his uncle:

“Technically ... you're right; but ... what the hell, Russo!” he exclaimed, changing the tone. “I prefer them happy and pointed by all that dragging our houses to a second war.”  
“Clothing first, Findekáno; talk, later. And that's now.” He turned around, grumbling: “I can’t believe that my father was admiring you naked.”  
“You can’t believe that he consider me more attractive than you”, Fingon provoked, laughing with a malicious expression.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

When Maedhros and Fingon entered the kitchen, they found Fëanor serving in earthenware cups a thick hot and odorous liquid.

“You made chocolate!” Fingon exclaimed and ran to sit down at the table as if he were ten years old again, and just the day before he had pulled Mathan's beard to prove they were real.  
“I never had made it, so I do not know how it is”, admitted Fëanor, putting a steaming mug in front of his nephew.

Maedhros looked for some cookies in the cupboard, repeating in his mind the words of his father. Not even in his childhood had he heard Fëanor express the insecurity of how anything would turn out: he assumed that everything he did was the best. Although he was a disaster in the kitchen, something surprising for elven males. Unlike Fingolfin, who could bake a cake, roast a deer, make jam and take care of his three children at the same time with the ease with which he dictated an edict in legal terms.

“You're smiling - pointed Fingon to look at his husband and the smile of Maedhros only grew to see the brown shadow on the upper lip of the elf known throughout the world as "the Valiant."  
“You have ...” he indicated his own mouth and Fingon licked like a cat, getting muddier. “Forget it. Let's go to what concerns us. Marriage, father? Don’t you think you should talk to Fingolfin before deciding such a thing? I mean, are things going so far between you? It was not the impression I had when ...”  
“The situation between us has changed. Nolvo knows what I feel and I ... I think I know what he feels “, he concluded with a grimace, closing his fingers around his jar.  
“You think?” Fingon asked with his mouth full of cookies. “Didn’t he tell you? Why should I be surprised?”  
“I know he loves me as much as I love him.”  
“That has always been clear to everyone; but does he love you in the same way you love him?” Maedhros pointed out.  
“Maedhros, that question is stupid coming from you.”

Fëanor and his son turned to Fingon, bewildered.

“It is not. There are many ways to ...”  
“You can’t compare their story with that of other people. Your father and my father have a different story. My father was the first child that Fëanor wanted as a son and Fëanor was the real father to him. Only later did they become friends and that friendship changed into antagonism when they reached the moment when they could have understood each other better as equals. After that, everything went down to the disaster ...”

“Thank you very much for the history lesson ...”

“Only when they found themselves again in Mandos they’ve had the opportunity to meet and love each other as brothers, and that affection has evolved into a deeper love. Put like that, it seems simple; but it really is not. You can’t separate kinds of love between them: they will always be brothers, rivals, lovers ... You can’t establish a limit between those relationships. I think your father knows”; he looked at Fëanor, who was watching him with a concentrated expression; “but my father has not understood yet.”

“Finno, you and I have known each other since you were a child.”

“You and I always knew that we would be mates. From the first moment, the attraction was the basis of our closeness. Yes, I was a child; but what I was looking for in you was not a friend to play with - of those I had a lot - or an example to follow - my father was enough for me. I always loved my partner and you also looked for the same in me, even when you were ashamed to see me that way.”  
“It's true: Nerdanel and I discussed it many times”, Fëanor agreed. 

“Great! My own parents knew I was a pervert”, shook his head Maedhros.  
“An adorable pervert”, raised his eyebrows Fingon.  
“Thank you, love.”  
“Anytime. But back to the subject ... Where did that sudden decision to marry my father come, uncle?”  
“I had no idea we were free.”  
“You did not know about the new law”, Fingon realized. “Of course, you were dead when it was enacted. It's relatively new, actually. And my father's fault.”  
“Really? Nerdanel did not tell me that part.”

“Well, when my father was reincarnated, my uncle ... that is, Finarfin insisted that he must live in the palace. Turgon was living in Tirion with Elenwë and Idril and I was staying where Lalwen with Aredhel, so there was not much choice. Dad agreed to live in the palace; but immediately he began to build a house ... our house ... on the other side of the lake where the twins and Maglor already lived. Of course Lalwen, my sister and I helped him. Turgon was somewhat reluctant; but in the end he joined the task. When the house was almost finished, Finarfin came with the idea of my father occupying a position in the Court ... something like President of the Council. Imagine how it felt to the elf who had been High King for 400 years in a world at war!”He smiled, raising his eyebrows. Yes, Fëanor imagined it.” But the worst was when Finarfin suggested it was time for my parents to be together again. I suppose his idea was that if my mother would return to my father, Eärwen would have no choice but to return to him. For many months, Dad ignored him ... until Finarfin said he had sent for mom and that the whole Court was waiting for the meeting of the High Prince with his wife.”

“Fingolfin sent Finarfin to fly for getting into his personal life”, interjected Maedhros. “He shouted in the middle of the Council that, for his part, every marriage bond with Anairė was finished and that he was happy that the mother of his children had found happiness in another person.”

“I suppose that our adorable Finarfin did not like that his wife's intimacy was revealed in that way”, Fëanor half-smiled.

“Well, everyone has always suspected the true relationship between Mom and Aunt Eärwen; but my father's statement left no doubt. The fact is that Finarfin insisted that a marriage bond could not be broken like that and my father alleged that he had died and that qualified as a reason for weight.”  
“A lot of weight. According to the records of the case, in that same session of the Council, Fingolfin proposed an amendment to the Law of Finwë and Míriel: although neither of the spouses chose to remain incorporeal, they had the right to decide if they wanted to renew a union based on tradition or the political need.”  
“He argued that since the marriage between our people is given by love or by common accord, it was unthinkable that once one of them did not wish to continue with the union, it would remain an obligation.”  
“Such establishment constituted a flagrant violation of the Laws of Eru Ilúvatar for their children.”

Fëanor smiled proudly. 

"Trust Nolvo to invent a law in a second," he said. 

"At first, not everyone agreed," Maedhros explained. “The Valaduri were the most reluctant to accept such a change in our society; however, the Kemendili were delighted with the possibility of rescuing one of their oldest traditions: the right to choose a temporary partner. The Ingolmor also supported the motion: it was illogical that someone was forced to maintain a relationship they did not want. Soon, everyone saw the advantages: many of those who remained in Tirion while their companions traveled to Middle Earth had found love once again and found themselves unable to enjoy it freely because of their previous bond. Finally, the matter was brought before the Valar.”

“Manwë decided not to be the one to make the final decision and let the Valar vote for or against the bill. With two abstentions, three votes against and nine in favor, the law was approved.” *

“ _Namna Nolofinwë Anairëllo_.”**

“Although, everyone calls it simply ‘Fingolfin’s Law’. Now, of course, others want to extend the scope of the Act to include unions in which neither spouse has ever died; but they do not wish to continue a life in common. It's more complicated; but we are working on it.”

“You guys?” Fëanor was puzzled. 

“My father withdrew from public life after that. He has not returned to the Council sessions and until he accepted that job in the Library he barely went around the city. And returning to the topic that interests us: you knew that you aren’t married to Nerdanel anymore and that my father is also free, and you decided that you would get married.”  
“I'd say you just summed it up, nephew-son-in-law; but it was exactly that way. Nolvo said that if we had a relationship, it would not be secret: what better way to prove that we are not ashamed of our love than by uniting in marriage?”  
“You can also love shamelessly without being married”, Fingon said.  
“Finno!” Maedhros scolded.  
“You and I love each other unashamedly for years without being married”, he reminded him, innocently.  
“Finno, you and I are not brothers.”

“Technically!” Fëanor took the word, impatient, drawing attention back to him. “Technically, the blood ties were eliminated when we both received new bodies. Yes, Nelyo, yes I consider Nolofinwë my brother still and if he decides that only that we are, I will only be his brother and I will not try to force his decision. However, I have the certainty that he wants me in the same way that I want him. I have the certainty that we can be much more than friends, brothers, that simple lovers ... Nolvo and I can be happy together ... and I ... I want everyone to know that I love him ... how I do it.”

Both young men contemplated him in silence. 

Maedhros was stunned by the conflict of emotions that the situation caused him: since his rebirth, Fëanor had shown slight changes in his behavior and opinions; but at all times he had remained the same as his children remembered. Many times, Maedhros did not know whether to feel happy or disappointed, especially when he understood that these "small changes" were only Fingolfin's work. For millennia, Fëanor had hated Fingolfin and now, he was his world, his light ... _his silmaril_. Maedhros could not help but wonder what would have happened in a world in which Fingolfin and Fëanor were never antagonists, what place Tirion would have been if they had worked side by side, what would have been his own story with Fingon if his uncle always had part of his house and his family. Maedhros wanted to remind his father that what he asked from Fingolfin was much more than a confession of love; it was giving up everything he knew, facing the world ... facing perhaps prison or exile ... because Maedhros doubted that the Valar would tolerate carnal relations among so-close relatives. Already his union with Fingon had been the subject of long debates and while many turned a blind eye when Idril chose to marry Maeglin, others did not stop muttering that they were close relatives and a child begotten of that union could be ... weird, filthy. How would Noldor himself react when he learned that his greatest hero was in love with his half-brother, the worst villain in Elvish history? Fingolfin would never regain the confidence of the people and Maedhros kept thinking that a day might come when the High King of Hithlum would have to drive the Noldor back in times of misfortune. After all, Morgoth was only banished and in the prisons of Mandos swarming the servants of the Dark Vala - including a certain "lord of lycanthropes" disembodied. 

“You have the certainty.”

It was Fingon who spoke at last. Fëanor turned completely in his direction and nodded slowly. 

"Well, that's more than any of his previous lovers could say," Fingon assured, with a shrug.  
"Alkarinehtar!”

Fingon did not look at his husband, aware that he only reserved his maternal name for when he really screwed up. 

“I also have the certainty that my father feels for you more than he is willing to admit”, Fingolfin's son continued, with a light tone. “I am sure that you would make him happy and, more still, that he would make you happy. But I also have the certainty that you could become very unhappy with each other ... and that possibility scares me.”  
“Does it scare you, Fingon the Valiant?” tried to mock Fëanor; but his heart tightened with the words of his nephew.

“I always have fear. Fear of waking up one morning and all this being a dream, fear that Maedhros is not by my side, fear that my sister will have to meet Eöl again, fear that Maeglin will not overcome his past, fear that Turgon become again the man he was after Elenwë's death, fear of Morgoth returning, fear of someone taking my husband from me, fear of my son suffering, fear of being helpless again while my father dies, fear that the war will return ... fear that you two will be enemies again and our world will crumble once again. I'm not that brave, after all. It does not take courage to face a dragon or charge against an army of monsters. It takes courage to see your people, the people you love more than yourself, suffer. I've had enough of that. I have had enough to see my father suffer. So, if right now I had the certainty that you will make him suffer again ... well, probably Námo would lock me up for all eternity to start another slaughter among elves.”

Fëanor raised an eyebrow.

"It's a joke," interjected Maedhros.  
"No, it's not a joke," Fingon replied. “Everyone knows how much I love my father; but everyone thinks I don’t understand it. They all forget that I was the one who stayed with him. It was **me** who never left him. I didn’t hide in a city built with the yearnings of the past or I ran in search of my teenage love. I was by his side while my father rebuilt our people from the remains that **you** left behind. I was by his side as he gathered the ashes so that the Noldor would resurface proud of them, able to stand up to an enemy that we could not defeat. I was at his side as he struggled to hold together a nation that **your children** insisted on dismembering like a dead animal. I was there the night he buried anger, pain, despair ... in a corner of his soul that no one would touch ... everything to become the king **you should have been**. I was there when everyone left him and betrayed him to protect their interests.” There was such anger in his accent that Maedhros put a hand on his shoulder, reassuringly. “You betrayed him once and no betrayal came back to hurt so much, I know; but, do you think I can forget? Do you think I can forget that Finrod locked himself in his beautiful caverns to dream of an idyllic world that would never exist? Do you think I forget that Finrod did not listen when my father said it was time to attack Morgoth and then abandoned his crown to help a mortal? Do you think that when I look at Curufin and Celegorm I do not remember how they ridiculed my father's fears just because they were comfortable in their shelter? Do you think I forget that Caranthir refused to risk the place that held the memories of his only love? That Maglor was too blind with his precious wife to think about serving his king? That my brother abandoned us without looking back? That my sister ran into the arms of your children after all? Throughout the damn realm, only I was always there and I witnessed how each new pain hardened my father's heart, a man who set his wife free to love another woman! The elf who followed the traitor of his elder brother to hell itself! That he became a murderer only to protect the brainless of his son!”

He stood up, freeing himself from Maedhros' contact. 

Fëanor watched him pacing the kitchen. He had misinterpreted Fingon's attitude all that time: his laughter, his eternal joy, his carelessness ... they only hid pains and grudges impossible to reconcile with the world that his nephew wanted for himself. 

“I love my father”, said Fingon, turning his back. “I love him so much that if I had the certainty that you would bring him happiness, I would surrender my soul to the Void only so that the Valar would allow you to be together.”  
“Findekáno!”  
“You would do the same”, he replied, turning to face Maedhros, with a calm expression. “But how can someone know what the future will bring? Love ends: we have seen it all the time around us. Once the love you had as brothers was not enough to keep you together, why should it be different being lovers? And when one of the two stops loving, what? I know that my father will resign himself to your abandonment once again, I know that he - who knows the horrors of war like no one - will not cause a new division among our people; but and you? Will you continue to be this ... **Fëanor** we barely know, making sure to accept what he decides?”

Now it was Fëanor's turn to jump to his feet and walk briskly from one side to the other. He had not thought about that possibility. In his mind, he believed that once Fingolfin accepted his feelings, they would have all eternity to be together; but Fingon was right: love can end. Couples of thousands of years separated day after day. Angrod and Edheloth had been one of the most in love couples in Tirion and yet, they remained separated since he was reincarnated. Finarfin had kissed the ground that his wife was walking on and now she was living with Anairë in plain sight. Nerdanel and himself had shaken the walls of the palace with their passion and now they could look at each other without the slightest wisp of desire passing between them. 

And Fëanor did not want to think that his desire for Fingolfin would fade. He did not want to imagine that the day would come when he could look at him without feeling this need, this confidence in having found what he always lacked. Worse still, he did not want to imagine that one day - after having given him his love and his passion - Fingolfin told him that it was better to follow separate paths, that he felt nothing when touched. 

The thought made him nauseous and he had to lean on the back of the chair so his knees would not give out. Could you love someone so much without losing your sanity? Was that how Fingon and Maedhros felt all the time? Was that how Finwë felt when he met Míriel? How did Indis feel when he met Finwë? Fëanor squeezed his eyelids, refusing to let the shadow spread inside him. 

The fear of losing his father had overshadowed his childhood and early youth. When he met Indis he hated her for stealing his father's love; but then, spending time in her company, seeing the soft tenderness with which she caressed Findis, Fëanor knew that he could love this female as he might have loved his mother and the terror that Indis would not want him back , that one day she also left him, forced him to close his heart to those feelings. When Nerdanel became pregnant for the first time, Fëanor feared that the pregnancy consumed her as it consumed Míriel: for years they had avoided having children because of that fear ... and because he had Fingolfin. Nolvo, the first child he held in his arms, the first child who stammered for him, the first who in his blessed innocence would one day stretch his arms from the ground and say, smiling: "a'to!", And that was for a long time Fingolfin believed that Fëanor was his father. But Fingolfin was not his son and as he grew up, his brother was moving away from him, and again Fëanor closed his heart to the feelings for fear of not being loved in the same way ... until Fingolfin, indeed, abandoned him too. And Nerdanel. In the end only his children remained, with a love he did not know if born of obligation, and Finwë, who mixed his love with guilt and pity. All his previous life had been a constant fear of losing those he loved ... until it became a **fear of love**. 

"I'll take it," he decided at last, and opening his eyes, he raised his head to meet Fingon's blue gaze. “This time ... I will be the elf that Nolofinwë always wanted to see in me.”

His nephew stared at him - his blue eyes as piercing as Fingolfin's, Fëanor felt a chill run down his spine. Fingon's expression softened and he was the carefree, crazy boy everyone loved. Fëanor breathed: the similarity between father and son had passed. 

“I don’t know why; but I believe you. " Fingon shrugged. “Then, when will you propose marriage to my father?”  
“Oh dear!” Maedhros muttered, sinking his forehead between his hands.  
“In Midwinter.”  
“Why in ...?”  
“I agreed to wait until that date for your decision. I have to be prepared.” He observed them, paying attention to the same earrings. “You wear earrings as a symbol of commitment ... Is a pair of rings very corny?”  
“It is not common between same sex couples.”  
“The rings have been the symbol of the marriage according to the old laws for too long”, explained Maedhros without discovering the face.  
“Bracelets then”, Fëanor decided. “I'm good at making bracelets.”  
“Maybe we should ask my father: he is usually quite traditional in these matters and maybe he prefers rings. They are less flashy.”  
“Rings are not good for me”, Fëanor was discouraged.  
“You can ask Celebrimbor for help”. Maedhros intervened again, still hidden behind his hands. “I have heard that he’s very good making rings.”  
“He had a lot of practice”, said Fingon. “Although I don’t think he takes the request well. Are you going to come out behind your hands at some point?”  
“No. I'm waiting for the nightmare to end.”  
“It's a dream, dear.”  
“No. It's going to be a nightmare to present a petition to the Valar to authorize that marriage.” Fëanor bit his lower lip, understanding the concern of his eldest son; but Fingon only approached his husband and kissed him on the crown.  
“Good luck we have you on our side to write it.”  
“We will not write anything if Nolofinwë rejects me”, grunted Fëanor at that moment. Maedhros dropped his hands and looked at his father with a scowl. 

"Hey! More confidence in yourself. You have become too lazy lately”, he scolded him.  
“Nope!” Fingon laughed. “He is in love. That makes us all idiots, even someone so smart. Don’t you remember what an idiot it turned me on?”  
“I suffer it every day, my love. Are you implying that you're smart? "

Fëanor smiled when he saw them together.

“Thank you, Fingon”, he said suddenly. His nephew pouted.  
"Do not thank me yet: dad can send you to fly.”  
“No, not because of this; but for ... that.” He indicated to both with a gesture. “For never giving up on my son. For not letting anyone destroy the good in him. One day ... one day I will be proud to call you "son", Findekáno Nolofinwion.”  
Maedhros was speechless. Fingon, on the other hand, bowed his head solemnly and when he straightened up, he said: 

“I am going to call you "old man", so get used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * To whom it interests, these were the results of the voting:  
> abstentions: Manwë and Nienna;  
> Against: Varda, Irmo and Tulkas;  
> In favor: Námo, Ulmo, Oromë, Yavanna, Aulë, Vairë, Estë, Nessa, Vána.
> 
> **Quenya: The Law of Nolofinwë and Anairë, as a result of "Namna Finwë Míriello": the law of Finwë and Míriel.


	12. Chapter 12

Yes, it was an opulent party. Of that, there was no doubt. Gold and gems decorated the gardens as in the Golden Age of Tirion Kor. Silk paper lamps illuminated the avenues and colored the night. The same sky above the city had been filled with dancing lights that imitated the dawn at the poles of Arda.

Leaning back in a column and taking spaced sips from a glass that now hung from his fingers almost empty, Fëanor watched the celebration apart from everyone. Few would come to greet him and Finarfin himself had just made a gesture with his head as the only recognition. Lalwen had been by his side for a while and Findis had come to shake his hand as if they were mere acquaintances. Of his children, only Maedhros, Caranthir and Maglor were present: Maedhros was with Fingon playing to make the audience uncomfortable, Maglor was playing in the orchestra with Daeron and Elemmírë, and Caranthir was doing his usual administrative role.

Fëanor wondered why Finrod had invited him. Definitely, he was not his favorite uncle and, apart from giving them the gift that he brought them, he had not seen the happy couple again.

“What are you doing here?”

Fëanor held back the sigh as he turned to face Turgon. Even reuniting with Elenwë had not appeased the hatred that Fingolfin's second son had professed, and Fëanor could not help but wonder what he would think of the turn in the relations between the two brothers.

“That's what I was asking myself”, he said, calmly. “Good evening, Turgon.”  
“You should not be here.”  
“Finrod invited me and it would have been a tremendous discourtesy ...”  
“ In Tirion. You should not be in Tirion. You should not even be among the living. Mandos must have held you prisoner until the end of Arda. And beyond.”  
“Who are you to question the decision of Námo?” His uncle raised an eyebrow.

Turgon blinked, as if he had realized what he had said: Fingolfin's second son had always been a faithful follower of the Valar and only for the sake of his cousins and his father had he gone into exile in the past.

“Námo is more generous than I expected. Morgoth was also released once.”

Fëanor suppressed the response that rose to his lips and with a hiss, swallowed bile. Turgon knew how to insult, of that there was no doubt. But he would not respond. By Fingolfin.

“Believe me, I remember it well. Námo, if I'm not mistaken, did not agree.”

Turgon watched him with twinkling eyes. Of the sons of Fingolfin, Turgon had been the only one to inherit from his mother the gray eyes of the Noldor. For the rest, he was his father's son: broad shoulders, tall stature, square jaw, high cheekbones, sensual mouth, hair combed in tight braids ... and the haughtiness of a true king.

“I do not believe in your rehabilitation, Fëanáro Þerindion”, he spat between his teeth. “You are, and always will be, a traitor and a murderer. You took us to destruction once and if we leave you, you will take us again. I will not allow you to do it.”  
“And what are you going to do, little boy?” Fëanor challenged, mocking. “Lock me in a tower? Throw me into the Timeless Void? ... Assassinate me?”

Turgon did not hesitate at his words. Coming closer, he said almost against his lips:

“I'll do whatever it takes to protect ourselves from you.”  
“ As you protect your precious city?”  
“Better than you protected your damn stones and your father.”

Fëanor clenched his fist.

“I hope you're not bothering my guests, Saironwë”, said a female voice near them.

Both Noldor turned at the same time to find themselves in front of a beautiful female dressed in white and gold. A diamond tiara adorned her almost white blond hair.

“Amarië ...” Turgon said, bowing slightly. “I was just ...”  
“I know what you were doing”, she interrupted, closing her eyelids sprinkled with sapphire dust. “Stop being so grumpy or I will not invite you to any of my parties. Elenwë is looking for you: she wants to dance and if you do not arrive soon, she will invite one of your cousins.”

As if such a thing were possible, Turgon winced like a teenager and almost ran in the direction that the newlywed indicated.

“My congratulations, Princess Amarië”, began Fëanor in vanyarin. “I have not had the opportunity to ...”  
“I invited you for Caranthir”, she interrupted, speaking in modern Quenya fluently. “It is the best friend a female can wish for her beloved. And he has also been a good friend to me: it bursts me that he is judged by people for being your son.”  
“Thank you. I suppose.”  
“I did not know you much in your first life. Not personally, anyway. Arafinwë ... he did not speak very well of you and Eärwen did not speak at all. I think she was tired of living in the middle of that "tug-of-war" of the House of Finwë. For all I know, you were a bastard. But, do you know who I did know? Prince Nolofinwë. I admired him when I was a girl and Ingoldo appreciates him a lot. I think if he gives you a chance ... well, he's the Wiser among us.”  
“I thought that was Ingwë.”  
“The Supreme King would think twice before contradicting the elf who challenged Melkor to duel. By the way, he's over there. I think he has not seen you.”  
“Why are you telling me?” He frowned.   
“Because you desperately need someone to be happy to see you.”

Fëanor followed her with his eyes as she walked away. Caranthir was right: Amarië was tougher than Finrod believed - what everyone believed.   
Finally, he moved away from the column and followed the path that wound between rose beds and rhododendrons. It was clear that some kind of power had been employed to maintain the garden in full bloom when autumn came to an end and Fëanor thought of the famous Three Rings that his grandson forged in Ost-in-Edhil, except that as Maedhros explained to him, those rings were just simple gems, with no more power than his exquisite craftsmanship.   
Even before taking the last turn, Fëanor felt the beat of his heart accelerate and the flutter in his belly that announced the proximity of Fingolfin. 

He stopped, observing from his position the group gathered about thirty paces from him. 

Anairë was still the same as one afternoon was presented to the royal family at the Academy of Arts: slender and elegant, a queen as much for her beauty as for her attitude. The emerald green dress fit her body, delineating the soft curves and the black curls descended on her bust, sown with blue and white pearls.   
Next to her, Eärwen looked like a teenager. Although more full of forms, Alqualondë's swan princess barely reached her partner's ear, which she tried to disguise by wearing silver hair gathered in a voluptuous runner pierced by coral pins at the top of her head. Eärwen wore a typical telerin outfit: sleeveless and low-cut - designed to accentuate the grace of her white collar - the dress opened at thigh height to show sandals that were tied above the knee.   
Between the two of them, Fingolfin stood out like the Mindon Eldalieva over the city of Tirion and Fëanor smiled when he noticed that his half-brother was grimacing as he took a step away so that he did not have to bend his neck while he spoke to them. The strategy earned Anairë a grimace and a nudge from Eärwen. 

Fëanor scanned him. Fingolfin dressed in white and silver. A blue velvet band circled his waist, knotted on his left side, and its ends reached to his knee to graze the edge of his patent boot. The V-shaped opening of the tunic showed the embroidered collar of the silk shirt and the tight pants were half-hidden by the loose skirts of the piece. His hair was pulled back in two braids that were joined at the back of his head by an unadorned mithril pin, and the rest of the abundant hair fell straight down to his waist. 

Fëanor felt his insides writhe with desire. It would be so simple to go to his side, to sink hands in his hair and kiss him until Fingolfin gave in to all his whims, to kiss him until the rest of the world vanished and only they remained. Fëanor knew he was selfish; but until that moment he had not understood how much. 

With an effort, he turned on his heels and moved away from temptation. 

“Until Midwinter”, he whispered, giving himself encouragement. 

__//______//_______//________//________//__ 

 

Fingolfin looked up, losing Eärwen's words. His gaze went to the deserted path ... just in time to see the movement of the leaves that denounced the departure of someone and his heart accelerated to understand who was. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__ 

He knew it was stupid what he was feeling; but he could not help it. He remembered the bewildered expression of Anairë and the pursed lips of Eärwen, and it was said that he was just exaggerating. He had not seen Fëanor for days and that was the only cause of his apprehension. 

He had asked him not to press him. He had asked for it himself and now he was making a storm in a glass of water because his brother was not looking for him. He knew from Fingon that Fëanor was fine and from Caranthir that he was helping Nerdanel in one of her jobs; but he needed to see it for himself. He needed to see with his own eyes that Fëanor was fine, that he was still there, that he had not disappeared like a dream. How many times in Barad Eithel did he wake up in the middle of the night with his hands trapping the vacuum instead of shaking his brother's hands? How many times did he not turn in a corridor thinking he heard Fëanor’s voice to find only the whitish light of the lamps that Fëanor created? How many times did he not run back to look at the palantír to have perceived the flash of those mocking eyes? And in the end, when the weight of Morgoth on his chest broke bones and crushed his heart, did not he also believe that it was Feanor who held the sword with him to cut off the enemy's foot? Did not he believe in his madness that his brother received him at the Other Side with open arms? 

Fingolfin stopped, realizing that he had run the path to the house at full speed. He forced himself to breathe and calm down before resuming the path with measured step. 

As expected, silence greeted him as he entered the house. Everyone had gone to the wedding and Celegorm was hunting with Curufin despite Aredhel's protests. With a snort of reproach against himself, he forced himself to go to his bedroom upstairs. However, when he reached the staircase, his gaze was diverted to the window that led to the dock. 

He would only check, he convinced himself.   
He cursed under his breath as he saw the deserted dock and looked across the lake, where Fëanor's house was also dark.  
It was then that he saw the boat in the middle of the lake and the figure standing on it. For a moment, he remained motionless, watching his brother, who remained as still as he was, with his head bowed and his eyes lost in the dark waters.

Feanor ran a hand over his face, sinking it into his hair while throwing his head back. He growled something unintelligible and turned to look for something. 

Fingolfin saw him hesitate and realized that his brother was drunk. Drunk, by the balls of Manwë! The anger almost made him leave; but at that moment the boat swayed and Fëanor fell into the water. 

A scream of fright closed Fingolfin's throat and a second later he threw himself headlong into the lake. He swam with such force that he reached the boat before the bubbles left by Fëanor disappeared. Grabbing him by the clothes, he pulled with all his strength and dragged him to the shore. 

He rolled through the sand, coughing and panting. He turned to Fëanor to find him leaning on his elbows, spitting water and shaking his head as if out of a torpor. 

“What the fuck do you think you were doing?” Fingolfin demanded, pouncing on him to hit him on the shoulder with a clenched fist. “You could drown yourself, you damn asshole!”

Fëanor raised to him a gaze darkened for the remains of drunkenness and smiled, foolishly. 

“Nolvo, my savior ...” he murmured. “When the herro thave the maiden ... they must kiss.”

Fingolfin squeezed his lips and punched him in the face. Fëanor fell back, unconscious. 

“Idiot”, roared Fingolfin. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__ 

 

Fëanor moved his jaw to make sure it was not broken and let out a moan as the pain pierced him from chin to skull. He sat up half on the bed and the bedroom turned like a merry-go-round. 

“Oh Mandos, have pity on me!” He whimpered, letting himself fall back on the pillow.   
“With certainty, the Judge would have been happy to receive you back in his Hallas: it would only prove that you are the asshole that he considers you.”  
“Why are you talking so loud?”  
“Because it's better that I scream at you to hit you, asshole!” Fingolfin roared. 

Fëanor pushed his arm away so that he covered his face and looked at him with only one eye open. 

"Are you ... upset with me, Nolvo?" He asked quietly. Fingolfin was standing by the bed and clenching his fists on either side of his body.   
“Upset? No, Curufinwë!”  
“Oh, I thought ... “  
“I'm furious! Wrathful! Choleric! What the hell were you doing in the boat in the middle of the lake?! Drunk?! You could drown! If I do not get to be there ...!”

He stopped, panting. Fëanor looked at him expectantly.   
The anger stopped curling the face of the younger brother and a deep pain supplanted it, disturbing the blue eyes with unshed tears. Slowly, Fingolfin stepped back into a chair and hid his face in his hands. 

“If I didn’t get there, you ... you could have died.”

The words emerged muffled by the despair and fear that at one moment shook his world. 

Míriel's son swallowed, understanding what the other felt and forgetting the headache, jumped out of the bed and ran towards him. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry”, he repeated, wrapping his arms around him and planting feverish kisses on Fingolfin's hair and hands.” I'm sorry I scared you that way. I was ... I was confused, disappointed in myself. I saw you at the party and I ... I could barely contain the temptation to run to you and kiss you, kiss you in front of everyone ... show the world how much I love you. I'm sorry, my precious child, I want to be strong for you ... I want to be the elf you admired once and ... and I cannot. I want you so much! I need you so much, Nolvo!” He took his brother by the sides of the face to force him to look at him. “It will not happen again. I will not do stupidity like that again. I promise you not ...”

Fingolfin's lips quieted his words. Fëanor told himself he could get used to being silenced in this way. 

"Do not make promises," Fingolfin growled, biting his lower lip. “You and the promises do not get along.”  
“No promises. Good”, nodded the older brother, breathing raggedly as he moved to return the kiss with overflowing passion. 

He did not know how he found himself lying on the ground, with Fingolfin hovering over him like an anxious predator. Fingolfin's teeth left marks of fire and hunger on his skin, marks that the tongue went through immediately. Long, elegant fingers pressed, drawing muscles, exploring angles, eliciting nerves. Fëanor arched, cursing under his breath, when his brother's mouth ran down his belly, stopping at the navel, sucking a rose of need at the junction between his thigh and torso as hands pulled at his loose pants to slide down his strained legs. 

A roar of ecstasy and anxiety erupted from Fëanor's throat and he lifted his head to see how his sex was devoured by Fingolfin. He buried his hands in his jet-black hair, pushing it away to have a full picture of the lips running down his length. For a few exquisite minutes, he could only watch the path of the mouth that rose and fell in it, leaving traces of moisture ... and then Fingolfin raised his eyelids and Fëanor was lost in those ocean eyes. His body took control, ramming into the warm cavity. He freed himself in his mouth, always looking at those stars of lapis lazuli and obsidian, the only stars he needed to guide him. 

His limbs loosened, the post-orgasm languor claiming him. Through the low lashes he saw Fingolfin get rid of his own clothes before lying down beside him. He let himself be dragged by the arm that surrounded his waist and molded to the hard body of his companion, rubbing like a cat when he felt the pressure of the rigid cock against his abdomen. Fingolfin slid a hand down Fëanor's side, down his hip before cradling his buttock and moving in his cleft. 

“This is not my answer yet”, he declared in a hoarse, hard voice.   
“I understand -, Fëanor accepted, almost submissive, shuddering when he felt the finger pressing his entrance.   
“It's ... I need to convince myself that you're real”, Fingolfin continued in the same tone. “I need to know that you are not a smoke and wishes dream, Fëanáro.”  
“Yes!” Fëanor shouted and arched as Fingolfin's index entered him with one blow.  
“I need to feel you” confessed the younger in the curve of his neck, moving his finger in and out of his body. “I need to convince myself that you are mine, Fëanáro.”  
“Yes. Yes. Yes!”

Fëanor moaned and swayed on his finger ... two fingers ... three ... And suddenly it was not enough. He wanted more. More from Fingolfin. More of his brother-lover. More of this male who feared for him and was not ashamed of that fear. His sex was again rigid, tense between their bodies - the excitement electrifying his skin, pulsing on temples and belly, turning inside out, searing nerves. 

Opposite to his older brother's fevered movements, Fingolfin kept a tight grip on his emotions. With calculated skill, he concentrated on preparing and widening the narrow passage until his fingers moved easily to find the point of nerves that would make Fëanor lose himself completely. Only when Fëanor arched - his mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure, the muscles of his arms tense - Fingolfin withdrew his hand and moved to guide himself inside.   
For a moment, it was too much - _too much inside him, too far out yet_ \- and Fëanor dug his nails into the other elf's shoulders, tearing, marking, clinging to reality. Fingolfin held him with gentle firmness while pushing himself and it seemed impossible, but every time Fëanor thought his body would break, he received a little more. 

A sigh of relief and delight shook Fingolfin's rigid body when at last there was no space between them. With agility, he changed position, lying on his back on the bare floor to hold Fëanor on top of him. 

The former Prince of the Crown concentrated on the feeling of being filled until he did not know where one started and ended another. It took him a moment to look down and see himself straddling his lover's hips - his own sex trembling against Fingolfin's striated abdomen, his fingers tearing bloody furrows in his shuddering chest. Their eyes met and Fëanor could see his reflection in the pools of obsidian surrounded by zafir that were the eyes of his brother. Slowly, he rose on his knees until only the tip of Fingolfin's cock was still caught in his ring of flesh and then descended to sit again on his hips ... again and again. 

It could have been like this for all eternity. Fingolfin followed with greedy eyes the movements of Fëanor: he could have continued like this until time ceased to exist. He threw the thought into the mind of his older brother, who threw back his head, moaning his assent and then bent forward, looking for his mouth with despair. They kissed frantically, too wet and lascivious, tongues and teeth wanting to devour and possess. 

Fëanor wanted to treasure this moment - a second chance he did not dream of. He wanted to make the night endless, stay in the eyes of his brother, imprisoned in his hands, in his possession ... however, pleasure grew, grew until it boiled behind his eyes, inside his chest and erupted in generous jets that bathed the pale skin of Fingolfin. Lost in orgasm, he barely knew that his brother’s hands were gripping his ass and forcing him to offer more, little thrusts before Fingolfin filled him, crying out his name as if it were a prayer. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Fëanor moved between the arms that surrounded him, molding himself to the body behind him. Instinctively, the hug tightened, possessive, and a moan escaped his lips as his muscles protested.

“Ssshhh”, Fingolfin reassured him, stroking his ear with warm breath. "Sleep a bit more. It still does not dawn.”

A smile danced in Fëanor’s mouth, who settled more into his brother's arms, basking in the pains that awoke here and there, in the stinging inside him. 

“You are the first.”

He felt Fingolfin pull away slightly and regret his words. Maybe his brother thought he was trying to compromise him by saying something like that, forcing him to make a decision now that he had given him what no one else had. Holding his breath, he turned to face up. As Fingolfin said nothing, he raised his eyelids and found him watching him with interest. Fingolfin raised an eyebrow and with a nonchalant tone, said: 

“It seems right to me: you were the first for me.”

Now Fëanor could only blink, stunned. 

“You said ... you said you had lovers ... several lovers ... and the ... the human boy ... I thought you ... Why did not you say something? You seemed to be comfortable with me taking you!”  
“I was comfortable”, he confirmed . “I enjoyed it a lot. It was ... different not to be in charge for once. And yes, I had lovers; but it was always me who took my partner. Did you really imagine me opening my legs for another male?” He raised an eyebrow.   
“N-no.” He felt a shiver of anger. “I did not want to imagine you with anyone else. Even imagining yourself with Anairë makes me nervous. I hate to think that someone else will ever touch you. However, I thought ... I know that you are a generous lover and that you do not give less than what you receive. I know you would treat any lover as your equal and ...”  
“I respected each one of my sentimental and sexual partners; but from there to give myself in such a complete way ... " He shook his head, causing a few black strands to cross before his eyes. Fëanor raised a hand and pushed his hair back, placing them behind his ear.   
“Then, my little brother, the dominant male”, he scoffed.   
“Always.” Fingolfin showed his teeth in a predatory smile. “With all my lovers: elves, humans ... maiar ... “  
“Excuse me?” He opened his eyes . “With whom…?”  
“ Well, a maia actually ... Eonwë ...”

Fingolfin laughed when he saw his brother's expression.

“It's a joke, right?”  
“Not at all!”  
“When? That is, Eonwë is always in Taniquetil and ... stuck to Manwë's skirts ... How ...? How…? When…?”  
“After my reincarnation, in fact. In my first life it would not have crossed my mind to look at one of them in that way. I went to visit my mother for a few weeks and stayed in the palace of King Ingwë, who convinced me to accompany him on one of his visits to the court of Manwë. Do you remember that in Mandos all the Maiar fled from me as if they expected me to attack them?” He raised an eyebrow and his brother nodded. “Well, Eonwë went straight to me and greeted me as an equal. We talked a lot that night and when we said goodbye he invited me to accompany him during the trainings. I went to the arena of Valimar and we fought ... it felt good to be able to hold a blade even if it was made of wood and ... well, one thing led to the other.”  
“One thing led to the other?” screeched Fëanor. “I want the details, damn kid!”  
“I thought you were jealous!”  
“Of course I'm jealous! And I'm going to want to break that mother-of-pearl face to the damn herald of goddam gods! But I still want to know the details! Every damn and juicy detail, Nolofinwë! Start talking.”

Fingolfin laughed. Finally, bending until his mouth was level with Fëanor's ear, he began whispering the "damn and juicy details" of his affair with Eonwë. For half the story, Fëanor shifted uneasily against him, digging his fingers into his hips and whimpering every time Fingolfin's hands brushed against him to illustrate the narrative.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Valadur: Vala' s servant. Pl. Valaduri. (quenya)  
> *Kemendil: Lover or friend of the earth. Pl. Kemendili (a kind of cult that I associate with the times prior to the encounter with the valar on the part of the Elves. Kemendili consider the Valar their equals and worship Mother Earth as the main power.) (quenya)  
> * Ingolmo: wise, master. Pl. Ingolmor. (School of thought focused on scientific development and research. I think I also invented it for this story.)

Fingolfin finished the order to the young she-elf who attended the establishment two blocks from the Public Library.

“Nothing else, Ma ... my lord?” the girl asked, without turning to the other occupant of the table.  
“That will be enough for now ... Heledhil”, he smiled, reading the name embroidered on the left shoulder of the white vest, over the green-grass blouse.  
“If you want something else, just call me, Majes ... Your Highness”, the girl blurted redly and hurried away to serve the order.  
“I hope that half of what you asked for is for me ... or I will die of hunger and envy.”

Fingolfin watched his half-brother with narrowed eyes.  
Sprawled in the chair in front of him, Fëanor maintained an expression almost hurt by the way the young employee ignored him completely.

“What?” Asked to perceive the look of Fingolfin. “She did not even look at me! And she almost called you Majesty ten times!”  
“They were only twice and I was making the request so she didn’t have to look at you when you just sat there looking at me ...” He bit his tongue when he realized what was about to say.

Fëanor smiled surreptitiously, enjoying the blush that rose to the other elf's cheekbones.

“Rather, I think that her attitude has to do with the fact that you are the national hero and I, the national villain”, he said, without losing the jovial tone.  
“Stop bull ...”

Fingolfin stopped when the waitress returned with the drinks. The girl left a glass in front of him and placed the other at a safe distance from his companion, as if she were worried that Fëanor might even touch her.

“You see it?” Fëanor said, straightening up as he leaned forward. “She is afraid of me.”  
“She's laeger. To know the rumors that will have told her about you. Or if someone from her family was in Doriath or Sirion’s Havens.”  
“Thanks for that reminder “, growled Fëanor and grabbed his glass to take a long drink.  
“You wanted to eat here”, Fingolfin reminded him.

Fëanor did not answer, playing with the revolver until his drink went from blue and red to dark purple. As it happened all too often, Fingolfin was right: he had been the one to break into the narrow office, on the pretext of handing over the translations and insisting until Fingolfin agreed to accompany him to lunch.

Tirion had changed. It was not the city that Fëanor remembered and that was sad on the one hand; but on the other, it was comforting, hopeful: if a city that remained unchanged for ten thousand years had managed to evolve, he could do it equally. However, since his release from Mandos, the artisan had had very little opportunity to explore the city. At first it had been difficult to get used to life: his new body had caused him more than one difficulty. For someone accustomed to controlling every movement of his limbs and demanding more from his body than a normal elf had dreamed of, wobbling like a newborn and being unable to control the strength of his hands or the pressure of his fingers, was the most close to torture. Fëanor could not remember being so clumsy even as a child and for several months he had to fight with his body as if it were an enemy. Fingolfin had been by his side all the time, taking care of him as if Fëanor were one of his children and taught him to be patient with this new body - it didn’t know the hardness of nature, the efforts of work or the fatigue of years. When finally Fëanor felt able to fend for himself without the fear of stumbling and giving with his mouth to the ground, he was faced with the fact that he was not welcome in his hometown.

In his first life, rumors had worried him very little - except for those who announced the betrayal of Indis's children - but now it was different. He was no longer a madman, a visionary, a genius ... People - _his people_ \- saw him as a murderer, a traitor ... and Fëanor found too painful to face those looks of hatred and contempt. After all, much of what he did, had been because of them. That first night, Fëanor had gone like a lost child to take refuge in his brother’s arms - the only one who seemed willing to forgive, to give him a second chance.  
It had been more than a year since that trip through Tirion and in recent weeks, he had the opportunity to know how the city had changed thanks to the stubbornness of Nerdanel, who did not stop in her effort to accompany him in her new projects. But, rather than rediscovering Tirion, Fëanor wanted to share this new world with Fingolfin.

He had discovered the restaurant they now sat in while returning from an afternoon of work with Nerdanel. He supposed that Fingolfin must know it too; but his brother admitted that he would never enter, preferring to eat in his office to save time - and avoid the signs of stupor and admiration, Fëanor realized too late.

Fingolfin, like Tirion, had evolved.  
Fëanor remembered a time when Fingolfin had sought the recognition of the inhabitants of the city, walking among them like an equal; but always making clear that he was the prince who took care of them, of their welfare. A part of him had believed that Fingolfin was looking for another's recognition in retribution for which his older brother denied him; nevertheless, most of his person always considered that everything was a skillful political strategy to gain the support of the citizens in his aspiration to the crown. Now, when without a doubt he could have claimed the crown for himself, Fingolfin preferred to hide in his house by the lake and in a tiny office among old parchments. 

“I wanted to spend time with you “, said Fëanor finally, following with his eyes the movement with which the other brought his juice to his lips. “Sometimes I forget that we are not exactly strangers in this city.”  
“We were never strangers”, Fingolfin nodded. “But one would expect that after fifteen thousand years the people would begin to forget.”  
“You're in all the history books: I do not think they're going to forget you.”  
“You are in them too. And to be honest, the images do not look anything like us.”  
“There's a statue of you in a public building.”  
“There is yours in the gardens of the palace.”  
“Where only Finarfin can see it and shout expletives.”  
“I don’t think Finarfin yells expletives to anyone. Not even a statue.”  
“Not even a statue of me?” raised an eyebrow Fëanor . “You have a lot of faith in your brother.”  
“ **Our** brother, Curufinwë.”  
“Whatever “, he shrugged. 

Fingolfin watched him with ill-concealed interest. After a few minutes in which Fëanor drank until almost finishing his drink without noticing the movement in the establishment, he let out a sigh. 

“I can’t understand.”  
“What?” Fëanor asked, turning his attention to him.  
“You. This. Us. What you say feeling for me.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You say that you consider me your brother ... only me you treat as a brother and you love me as such ... however, you also affirm that ... that you want me, that you love me like ... Wouldn’t it be more logical for you to love Lalwen or Finarfin like that, who you don’t really consider your brothers?”  
“Why do you always want to find the logic of things?” Fëanor huffed.  
“ ‘Cause you taught me that even the chaos of a supernova follows a logic. You taught me to understand, so do not be irritated when I want to understand something ... incomprehensible.”  
“Love does not follow a logic. Nor does hate. I never loved Findis as a sister; but I loved you from the first moment that Father pushed you in my arms as if it were his last hope to get me close to his new family. And it worked, you know? It is true that I did not love Findis or your mother; but your existence made tolerable the long dinners, made me look forward to the day I would visit the palace, made shorter the parties in which I had to live with the royal family ... _your existence made me feel at home again._ My father expected me to feel the same for Lalwen, who physically resembled you, or for Finarfin, who was the other male; but as much as I tried to explain it to myself, I never found the same affection for them in my heart. I loved you, yes, Nolvo.”  
“It was not a very tough love to say”, said Fingolfin.  
“No, it was not. I am sorry. Nor did my hate have logic. I started hating you long before Morgoth came between us. It is not reasonable to hate someone just because he changes and that was the only justification for my antagonism with you: you were no longer the anxious and enthralled child who looked at me as if I had made the stars, you no longer belonged to me as before and that displeased me.”  
“We clarify all this in Mandos”, Fingolfin reminded him, drumming with his fingers on the table. “That did have logic: fight, accuse, complain, beat, shout, listen to us ... and start again and again until we understand and accept. And love us. I can understand that course of events and ...”  
“Good! Do you want logic?” Fëanor became impatient and leaning forward, he added, lower: “You are damn beautiful ... beautiful as a wild horse, all strength and beauty in a mixture that seems constantly about to explode. I know what you are capable of despite your ice prince facade ... and it excites me. It excites me to delirium the way you lose control and then you become this again ... a marble statue that does not seem to have blood in its veins. Nobody knows you like me. People love a hero, the prince who had aqueduct systems built in the city, the king who protected them from the armies of Morgoth ... I love the child avid-of-knowledge, the astute politician who won the support of three social groups as different as the Valaduri, the Kemendili and the Ingolmor, the ambitious prince who claimed the crown for himself as soon as he saw the chance, the ruler who managed to attract Green and Gray Elves alike, diminishing the supposed power of Thingol and his _divine_ queen. I love you because you are more than what you show and you always have an ace up your sleeve to surprise us all ... like that day at the Games that you threw sand into the eyes of the Vanya ...”  
“Meneldur”, Fingolfin recalled, smiling despite the blush that dyed his face by the declarations of Fëanor.  
“That” , Fëanor agreed, extending a hand to brush the fingers of his half-brother. “I would not know how to devise a clever solution to the difficulties: I go headlong against the problems, waiting for them to break or get out of the way. We are different and at the same time so similar.”

Fingolfin fixed his eyes on the fingers that were barely touching the tips of his own on the table. Idril's words echoed in his memory: it seemed that years had passed since he went to visit his grandchildren for the last time. 

“We complement each other”, he murmured, distracted.  
“That's right”, his brother sighed, excited and with a twist of his fingers, interlaced them with Fingolfin's. 

Fingolfin continued observing how Fëanor's thumb ran along his index finger, in a caress that was too intimate and that brought with him the memories of the two nights they spent together. The arrival of the waitress with their lunch forced Fingolfin to release his hand while hiding the agitation that the closeness caused him. 

By the end of the lunch, Fingolfin had come to the conclusion that he desperately needed to put distance between them ... or the reactions of his body would cloud any possibility of making an impartial decision. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

The pressure in his chest was the first thing he felt. The crunching of the bones revealed the nearness of the end long before the pain spilled through the chest and abdomen. He knew, with all certainty, that there would be no future for his people. He thought of Fingon and how furious he must be if he had already discovered his departure. He thought of Ereinion - so young still to be an inheriting prince - and told himself that Fingon would surely send him to the Falas, away from the war: Maedhros and he had talked it on Maedhros’ last visit to Hithlum. Maedhros ... he thought about his nephews: in the end he had proven himself as reckless as his brother. Curufinwë ... for some reason, he could never adapt to call him by the badly sindarized form of his name. Curufinwë ... would he be seeing him now? What would he think when he saw him trampled and crushed by his enemy? At least, Curufinwë had had enough pride to burst into flames rather than die as another elf; instead he ... he was going to die under Morgoth's foot ... and shit!

He grasped the sword and, with the strength of the dying man's despair, turned it to wound the Vala one last time. The cry of pain resounded beautifully in his bleeding ears. He closed his eyes and before him appeared the face he had so often imagined in the lonely nights. Curufinwë. 

_Are you proud of me now, Curufinwë?_

He felt the hands caressing his face and sinking into his hair. With an effort, he raised his eyelids and, through the fog of sleep, saw his brother leaning over him. 

"Curufinwë ..." he murmured just before Fëanor's lips covered his. 

Desperate, Fingolfin clung to the life breathed by Fëanor's kisses. He raised one hand to entangle it in his brother’s loose hair and with the other he anchored to the muscular hip. Fëanor moved away to brush his face with his lips - half kisses, half licks - as he turned his pelvis to rub his erections together through the light clothes.  
Fingolfin threw back his head, offering the throat to the mouth that descended, panting when a hand slid down his torso to play with a nipple. Impatient, he searched until he found the edge of his pants and pulled the piece to free his sex. He did the same with his partner's clothes and surrounded the sexes of both with his hand.  
Fëanor moaned, swore and entwined a hand with his to help him. Breathing hard one in the other's mouth, they come almost in unison, sealing the moans with a ravenous kiss. 

 

Fingolfin opened his eyes, awake at last, to meet the mocking and luminous smile of his half-brother. 

“My name is the first thing you say whenever you wake up?”

Fingolfin closed his eyes again and ran a clean hand through his hair, trying to forget the dream.

"I had a nightmare," he confessed.  
“I figured it out.” Suddenly, Fëanor was serious and Fingolfin watched him, curious. “I was sleeping and I was awakened by this ... feeling that you were in danger. I ran here and found you asleep so I figured it was a nightmare. Do you have them often?”  
“Occasionally”, he admitted, shrugging and sat on the bed. 

Fëanor had settled on the other side of the bed and was lying on his back, with one arm below head, observing it and with clear intentions to remain in the same place. 

“What do you dream?”  
“It depends. Sometimes, I dream of the Helcaraxë ... others, I dream of Aredhel's death and I can feel the poison corrode my insides. There are times when I dream of Fingon's death and I feel helpless when the whip of fire seizes my arms, and I can’t defend myself: I awake at the moment Gothmog's ax descends on me ... On one occasion I dreamed I was in Gondolin, in the King's Tower and I fell ... I fell while the city crumbled around me ...”

The older brother listened in silence while the words faded on Fingolfin's lips. He had also been shown the deaths of his children in Mandos; but he had not dreamed of them since his reincarnation. Until that day, he had not known that Fingolfin had such nightmares. 

“And ... what did you dream about today?”  
“With ... the moment of my death.”

Then, it had been that, Fëanor understood. For the first time, Fingolfin had dreamed of pain of his own and Fëanor had felt that his brother was in danger. Or maybe, having felt it was because they were more connected now ... after having sex. Perhaps, without their knowing it, they had already established a link between their souls.

“Why do not you come back here and rest a little longer?” he proposed. “The nightmares will not return while I am by your side.”  
“I am no longer a child, Curufinwë”, Fingolfin replied, mordant.  
“I know: a child would not make me feel what you.”  
“Anyway, how did you get in here?” he demanded, standing up.  
“Your house remains as open as mine. Our families can come and go at ease. In fact, I think Caranthir arrived just a little while before me: I saw light under his door.”  
“Don’t you worry a bit?”

Fëanor watched him without moving, trying to understand the meaning of the question. 

“What?”  
“May they see us. That one of our children sees us and knows ...”

Fingolfin fell silent, as if only pronouncing the words would cost him an enormous effort. Fëanor thought whether to tell him that probably all of his children knew what was going on - or at least, what he was doing. Right now he was not quite sure what Fingolfin was up to: days before he had made love to him as if he were the owner of his soul; but now it seemed that just being in the same room with him embarrassed and disgusted him. 

“Do you regret it, Nolofinwë?” he questioned, watching him fixedly.  
“ I should. And you should too.”  
“How could I regret making love with someone I love?” Fëanor roared, jumping as if they had punctured him with a red-hot iron.

“With your brother, Curufinwë!”  
“You're already with the same”, he snorted.  
“It's true! The only truth! We are brothers: nothing will change that.”  
"Is that your decision?" 

For a second, Fingolfin stared at him, speechless, not knowing what to answer. Fëanor straightened his pants and tugged furiously at the shirt until, instead of fitting it, he tore it to the front. 

“I asked you a damn question”, he hissed between teeth. “If you already made a decision, you do not have to torture me until your damn deadline, Nolofinwë. Tell me you do not love me and we end up with this story.”  
“I asked you not to press me”, Fingolfin defended, crossing his arms over his chest.  
“And I have not done it!”  
“You are demanding an answer now.”  
“You are the one who behaves as if already had the answer you want to give me. Gods, Nolofinwë!”

He walked around the bed with long strides and stopped in front of his brother to grab him by the hips and bring him closer to his body.

“If you are going to reject me, do it at once; but do not give me hope to later break my soul.”  
“I have not given you hope ...”  
“What do you think you do when you rescue me from drowning, and then you push me to the ground, and make love to me until my body trembles unable to separate of you? What are you doing if not giving me hope when you wake up murmuring my name and give yourself to my kisses as if you drank life of my lips?”  
“We’ve done this all our lives: pull the other to break the ties that bind us and I never claimed you for it!”

Fëanor was stunned by his response.

“This is some kind of revenge for how I treated you in our first life?” he asked. 

Fingolfin paled, understanding what he said. Was it? Was he taking advantage of Fëanor’s vulnerability to get revenge?

“No”, he denied himself more than his brother. “Don’t be an idiot: how do you think of such a thing? It's ... I don’t know. I just ... I need time to think about it, to ...”  
“Why are you so afraid?”  
“What?” 

Now it was Fingolfin's turn to observe his brother, perplexed. 

“Do you think I do not see it?” Fëanor asked, without letting go. You are afraid. You are afraid of love. You are afraid of loving me and that love consumes you, dragging you until you have no will of your own ... "  
" You're already talking stupid things again, " Fingolfin growled and made to move away. Fëanor caught him by the waist with one arm and with the other hand grabbed him by the hair in the base of the nape. 

“I feel it in you when you kiss me, when you touch me”, he insisted against his mouth. “You are afraid to love and suffer. You are afraid to give yourself to this love.”  
“You are the one who was always afraid to love and not receive anything in return”, accused Fingolfin.  
“I'm not afraid to love you.”  
“Because you're convinced that you have me at your mercy”, he hissed.  
“And you are afraid of a love that can last forever.”  
“No love lasts forever”, replied Fingolfin, resting his hands on his chest to push him.  
“Maedhros and Fingon” , exemplified Fëanor.  
“Oh yes”, Fingolfin mocked. “A love so eternal and absolute that Fingon has a son and a half current population of Valinor slept with one or the other ... even with the two.”  
“I did not think you were so cynical”, frowned Fëanor, loosening his arms. 

Fingolfin hurriedly put distance between them, turning his back on him. Fëanor watched the strained line of his shoulders for a few minutes. 

“What?” Indis' son sued, feeling his scrutiny.  
“Do not you believe in true love?”  
“Love can be true without being eternal, Curufinwë; the two concepts are not mutually exclusive.”  
“You say it for your human lover? It's his fault that you behave like that, right? That was a love doomed to failure, Nolofinwë. From the moment you put your eyes on him, you knew it would have no future.”  
“And that's not why it was less intense or less real”, he declared, turning in front of him.  
“And what you feel for me is not equally intense? Real?”

Fingolfin closed his eyes, evoking each time the elf-in-front’ hands touched him. Intense? Real? That was not enough to describe it. No words could describe what Fëanor was making him feel. In a world where they were not brothers, in which they had not been fathered by the same person, at this time he would be living with him, ignoring anything other than drinking the pleasure of those lips, devouring life in that body.

“By Eru, Nolvo”, moaned Fëanor and in two steps came to his side. 

Fingolfin did not fight when the muscular arms caught him and brought him close to the hard, excited body. Without opening his eyes, he gave himself to the impatient kiss that devoured his mouth. His hands fumbled for Fëanor's shirt and broke it, throwing the pieces to the ground. Both struggled with each other's pants until they both kicked the pieces out of the way. A unanimous moan escaped their mouths as their naked bodies touched.  
The son of Indis allowed himself to be pushed to the bed and fell on his back, opening his legs so that his brother could place himself between them. 

“This is not real?” Fëanor demanded, exploring with two fingers, impatient, biting his lips and chin. “Is not it intense? Is not it true, Nolofinwë?”

Fingolfin growled something unintelligible and impaled himself on his fingers greedily, asking for more with his whole body and spirit. Fëanor took his hand away and led himself inside, impetuous. The pain drowned out Fingolfin's breathing, clenching his chest until his temples almost exploded. His lover breathed painfully in his neck, digging his fingers into his sides. 

Finally, they began to return to them after the initial vehemence. Fëanor went to move; but Fingolfin caught him with his arms and with an agile movement, he changed their positions, straddling him.  
Firmly, he sat down, immobilizing him.  
Finwë's eldest son looked up, surprised by his lover's attitude. 

“You're going to give me the time I asked you, Curufinwë”, declared Fingolfin with unexpected self-control.  
“What ...”  
“Up to Midwinter. You will let me consider it and decide what I want to be for you: your brother ... or your lover. No more invading my house ... my bed ...” He moved slightly on him, tearing a moan of despair, “no more tempt me with your kisses and your caresses. I can’t ...” he had to readjust himself so that Fëanor's cock did not press on his prostate, unleashing coursing of pleasure. “I can’t think when you are around me.”  
“Why…?”gasped Fëanor, twitching his fists on the sheet until it tore between his fingers. “Why are you doing this to us, Nolvo?”  
“The love of a brother is eternal, Curufinwë.” He leaned over him to brush his lips with his tongue. “But not that of a lover. I don’t want another war between us.”  
“Are you going to reject me at the end?” Tears almost slipped from his tight eyelids: tears of frustration and despair.  
“No questions, Curufinwë, or both of us will finish this on each side”; he growled in his mouth. “And I do love you, Curufinwë; I just do not know if I'm capable of loving you like you want me to.”  
"Let me teach you then," he begged, sinking his hands into the black hair that spilled on both sides of them, isolating them from the world.  
"You can’t teach anyone to love, Curufinwë," Fingolfin replied with sudden sadness before kissing him languidly. “Make love to me like it was the last time”, he asked later. 

Fëanor refused to listen to the insidious little voice that told him that, indeed, **it was.** Slowly, he kissed Fingolfin again and slid a hand down his back, until he found the point where they both joined. If this was the last time, he was going to make sure that Fingolfin remembered it beyond the end of Arda.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Annatári: queen, lady of the gifts. (q)  
> * Haldatári: hidden, veiled queen. (q)  
> *Alkarinehtar: glorious warrior. (q)  
> * Aran-i-Heleg: King of Ice. (s)

Fingon was sick of tiptoeing around his uncle and father. He didn’t know what the hell was going on and when he turned to Maedhros, he just silently denied and talked about something else. What was clear was that nothing was going as planned.

Fingolfin spent the whole day in his office and came home late at night. He had not taken refuge again in his hut and Fëanor's name had not left his lips once. For his part, Fëanor had almost moved to Nerdanel's workshop and barely stopped at home.  
When the twins returned for the third time in the week saying that their parents had eaten together, Fingon decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. Of course, he didn’t consult his decision with Maedhros: it was better to avoid a sermon - Maedhros was an artist giving sermons, to the point that one ended up promising not to reoffend; not for repentance, but for not listening to another sermon ever. Fingon had had enough sermons during his first life.

 

Fëanor closed the door behind him and headed for the stairs. He stopped short when he saw the elf sitting on the first step.

“Cannot you sleep, Fingon?” he asked, frowning.  
“I was waiting for you.”  
“Why? Is something wrong with Maedhros?” he tensed.  
“I want to talk about my father.”

Fingon frowned as he felt the tension in his uncle's shoulders deepen. What had happened now?

“Whatever you want to know, you better ask him.”

The answer ignited more alarms in Fingon's head, who jumped to his feet.

“You are more likely to talk”, he said, without losing the relaxed tone. “Now, I must assume that things aren’t going very well if you have not seen each other for more than two weeks.”

Seventeen days and fourteen hours to be exact. Fëanor realized with a start that he had been counting not the days; but the hours! Scared, he realized that he was falling into his past behavior. In this way he used to obsess before - with the grave of his mother, with his father, with his children ... with the silmarils. That was not healthy. _For no one._

“We can live without seeing each other half an hour”, he shrugged; but his nephew's expression showed him that it was too late to feign indifference. “All right. I am giving him the time and space he asked for.”  
“I guess he didn’t ask for it very kindly when you are fully complying.”  
“Your father has his negotiation methods.”  
“My father is afraid of suffering again.”

Fëanor watched him silently: every day, Fingon surprised him more.

“I will not make him suffer.”  
“Not conscientiously”, the young elf accepted. “At least, not in this life. But if there is something that Dad has, it’s a good memory.”  
“I know”, admitted Fëanor and to his mind came the irritation that in the past caused him the ability of his half-brother to remember name, marital status, number of children, problems and aspirations of each elf that crossed with him.  
“Excuse me if I insist on the fact that my father may have forgiven you; but not forgotten. Another virtue he has is to learn from his mistakes. Usually.”  
“Some would refute that last one taking into account our proximity.”  
“I doubt he was the one who took the first step in this approach.”

Míriel’s son remembered that he was the one who first looked for Fingolfin in Mandos. At that moment, his half-brother had refused to see him, vanishing from his presence with a facility that proved the ability to control his fëa much better than other disembodied ones. Many years passed before Fingolfin accepted before Námo that he did wish to meet Fëanor and certainly his first words were recriminations and accusations. No apologies or pardons, only rancor and disappointment.

“We have come a long way since then “, finally sighed Fëanor.

Fingon pouted: why did everyone worry so much about moving forward? Maedhros only talked about leaving everything behind, Idril insisted that Maeglin leave the past behind, Turgon ... well, Turgon had a selective memory and Aredhel did not talk to anyone about her feelings. He did not want to move forward. Not necessarily. True: the years in Middle-earth had been dark, painful; but for that reason every moment of happiness, every day that it was possible to love, each kiss, each blessing was more precious. Fingon did not want to move forward if moving meant forgetting.

“Maybe it would be good if you backed down a bit” he said with a frown.  
“Sorry?”  
“You worry me: you are too civilized to be the Fëanor that I remember. I'm not good at dealing with things I can’t understand: Russo always says it. When I don’t understand a thing, I usually get into head-butting with it.”  
“I hope that does not mean that you think of hitting me with head-butts.” His uncle almost got scared, straightening himself up if he expected that at any moment Fingon would ram him like a bull.  
“I liked you more when you did not give up so easily.”  
“I have not given up. Why are we discussing this? Your father believes that none of you knows about us.”  
“Of course he does not believe that.”  
“He said that ...”  
“Well, you still do not know your half-brother.” As Fëanor observed him, inquisitive, he added: “Dad knows we know; he's just pretending he does not know. It's ... his High King's instinct: pretending to ignore things he knows thoroughly. It allows others to expand on the subject and thus know their opinions. And how much do they really know. I've seen him do it a million times. By the way, when exactly did he imply that we did not know? Before or after convincing you to accept their negotiation terms?”  
“Does it matter?”  
“Maybe”, he tilted his head, with meditative expression. After a few seconds, he shrugged. “Maybe not. Anyway, I preferred you when you went for what you wanted without caring for the opinion of others. Including the opinion of those you wanted.”  
“That was not healthy. For no one”, he replied, with an effort.  
“Do you really believe it?”  
“It's ... They're right.”  
“Who?”  
“Manwë. Your brother. Námo.”  
“Sorry? When did you care what Manwë says? And Námo? That is, you did not hear him when he cursed us; but you hear himnow. As for my brother ... you really don¡t believe the maternal name, right? I mean, my mother called me Alkarinehtar.”  
“It looks good on you.”  
“Findis is called Annatári. She doesn’t even appear in the Court.”  
“She still has many years ahead to prove that Indis hit the target.”  
“My mother's name is Haldatári.”  
“That ... could be true.”

Fingon opened his mouth to refute; but he remembered that this was how Eärwen called his mother and closed it again. 

“Returning to our subject, you're not thinking of letting my father make this decision alone, right?”  
“That's exactly what I'm going to do.”  
“But ...!”  
“Findekáno”, he interrupted, extending a hand in his direction. “Let's make something clear, yes? I love your father. I love him as I did not believe that it was possible to love someone ... I love him so much that I am willing to accept his choice. No, let me finish. You know me, as you say. When have I taken something that did not belong to me in my own right? Never. If your father chooses to be only my brother, it will say that he does not love me in another way and that only he can give me.”  
“What it will mean is that being your brother is more comfortable than being your lover.” Fingon growled, unable to contain himself. “You do not go beyond a brother, a friend ...”  
“I've proven that it can happen.”  
“My father has the certainty that you will not fail him this time. However, he has seen you stop wishing Nerdanel. He has seen you chase someone and then get tired of their company in a week. He has seen you get bored of your lovers as you get bored of your projects once you get the idea concrete.”  
"Nolofinwë has a very poor opinion of himself if he compared himself to those elves," growled Fëanor, going to sit at the other end of the step. Fingon half turned to distinguish his face in the gloom .  
“Compared with the mother of your children is to have less?”  
“I did not mean that. Nolvo cannot wait to be compared with Nerdanel: they are completely different relationships. Besides, he's also separated from your mother.”  
“That's completely different. My parents are very good friends; but they were never in love. Instead, you ...”  
“When I married Nerdanel I was almost a child. I wanted to have children, to experience new emotions, to learn ... and the fate of all elves was supposed to be marrying and forming a family; why wait then? But Nerdanel was not my destiny.”  
“And my father is?”

Fingolfin's son almost regretted having asked when several minutes passed without his uncle responding.

“I dare to think so.”

Fingon let out the breath that contained with such force that he knew that Fëanor had felt it. 

“Tell me the truth”, he continued after a moment; “ if he rejects you, will you do nothing? Will you let it be and accept his decision without more?”  
“Could not.”  
“Good”, said Fingon, smiling. “I was starting to worry ...”  
“I'll leave. If Nolofinwë rejects me, I will go as far as possible and for as long as necessary. Until being by his side is not so painful.”  
“But ... but ... you do not run away! You never back down! You do not give up!”

Fëanor stood up, avoiding the burning eyes of his older nephew.

“It will be the best, Fingon. You know.”

The youngest followed him with his eyes as he ascended the stairs. The best? The best for whom? If Fëanor left, Fingolfin would never recover. He had seen his father suffer: nobody had seen it like him. Only Fingon witnessed the disappointment when Turgon abandoned them, of despair when there was no news of Aredhel, of the pain always present in his love for Hador ... Only Fingon had seen the pain in Fingolfin when he became High King, when finally the words of Fëanor were fulfilled, when he put on the crown that should never belong to him ... No, it was not the best. The best thing was that his father was happy: above everything ... above everyone.

“I need reinforcements, " he muttered under his breath. 

“Findekáno?”

He raised his head to the voice that demanded him: Maedhros was at the top of the stairs, wearing only the loose pants. The copper curls fell on shoulders and chest, illuminating the immaculate skin. Fingon remembered a time when that precious body was scarred - and how many times did he kiss each one of those scars as if they were something sacred. He felt nostalgia for those times ... and immediately felt guilty. Certainly, Maedhros did not miss the scars. 

“You should be sleeping”, he said, climbing the steps with agility.  
“The same for you. What are you doing?”  
“Planning ... “  
“Finno, stop meddling in the lives of our parents ...”  
“A visit to Aunt Lalwen”, he specified quickly. “I'm planning a visit to Lalwen.”

Maedhros studied him closely, with a raised eyebrow. Fingon remained unperturbed by his scrutiny. The redhead sighed and put an arm around his shoulders, he said, as he led him back to the bedroom: 

“As I was saying, stop meddling in the lives of our parents …”

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

“For the starry petticoats of Varda, this is a hovel!”

Fingolfin looked up from the spread on the table and frowned as he saw the female who filled the doorway. 

“Lalwen”, he said, straightening. “What are you doing here? "

His younger sister - dressed in a flashy suit of fuchsia riding jacket and jodhpurs - arched an eyebrow at the question and crossed her arms under her generous bust. 

“Is that a way to say hello to your favorite sister? You have become a hermit, Arakáno.”  
“I was not expecting you”, replied the elder as he went around the bureau and approached her. “In fact, I have the certainty that you don’t like to come to this part of the city.”  
“You know Ingoldo still wants to get me married, right? With that red-ears asshole who is his advisor.”  
“Lord Amandil is a very capable counselor. I don’t think he can be labeled a fool.” He stopped when he noticed the expression of Lalwen and added, with a pout: “Although it’s true that his ears redden very easily. But that should not bother you when you get so good with Caranthir.”  
“The difference is that our nephew blushes because he is shy; while the ears of Amandil only suffer the addiction of its owner to miruvor. And stop talking nonsense and give me a kiss ... or I'll take your attitude like you don’t want to see me.”

Fingolfin let out an exaggerated sigh of resignation and leaned down to touch his sister's forehead with a soft kiss. Lalwen - aware of the more than thirty centimeters that her older brother took her - remained very still, maliciously enjoying the effort of Fingolfin. Only when the male's lips finally touched her clear forehead did the she-elf give way and rise to the tips of her feet. At that moment, Fingolfin grabbed her around the waist and with the same ease that he would with a child, he lifted her up in the air, causing her to scream. 

“Ssshh” ordered the former High King of the Noldor, holding her against his chest. “We’re in a library, little sister.”  
“It's your fault!” She accused him between teeth.  
“I amn’t shrieking like a cat that stepped on his tail.”  
“It was you who stepped on my tail!”

For a second, both stared at each other: Fingolfin with a puzzled expression, Lalwen trying to look disgusted. Finally, the two burst out laughing and in a hurry, Fingolfin lowered his sister to hide both in the office just as one of the ushers of the Public Library approached by the corridor. 

“Then”, said Fingolfin after a moment when they secretly laughed like two children, “what brings the beautiful High Princess of Tirion through the city?”  
“Millennia ago that I don’t use that title”, she wrinkled her mouth . “I came to see you. And to check that the rumors were true.”  
“What rumors?”  
“That the hero of the Golodhrim hides in a cupboard.”  
“It's an office. It has the same dimensions as my office in Barad Eithel.”  
“Oh yes, the office you were never in. I remember: Erestor opened it once a week to air it.”  
“When you say it like that, it seems that I was a very careless ruler.”  
“Careless with the papers ... a little; neglected with your duties ... on the contrary! You barely took time to breathe. It made me sick to see you so busy all the time. I mean, how many times in Middle Earth did we just have a picnic?”  
“We did not live precisely in a suitable region to go on a picnic.”  
“Fingon went on a picnic."  
“And he came back with a new wound and a cluster of orc heads.”  
“The heads of dissected orcs!” exclaimed Lalwen with obvious nostalgia. “Too bad they all got lost when the Bragollach. I would have liked to have some here.”  
“You expected Galadriel to bring them?”  
“Erestor, actually. I doubt that Galadriel had come closer than two meters of his cousin's trophies.”  
“Interesting, isn’t it? As for centuries Galadriel never left Fingon and then she could not bear to be in the same room with him.”

Lalwen had approached the desk in the corner and was studying the documents on the table: they were translations of the Valarin into Quenya and Sindarin, and she swore she knew that letter more than she would like. Hearing his brother's comment, she looked up to see his brooding expression and smiled, amused.

"Don’t tell me you never noticed, Arakáno!" she laughed.  
“What?”  
“Of course Galadriel could not stand being near Fingon: he chose Maedhros!”  
“Sorry?” Fingolfin puzzled. “Are you implying that ...? Impossible! Marriages between cousins were forbidden in Valinor!”  
“Really? And how exactly do you make it understand the laws to the heart? You know it? Because I never got my heart to understand laws.”

Fingolfin clenched his jaw at her bitter tone. He went to her and stroked her back with one hand, comforting. 

"I'm sorry. I do not have a damn idea how to explain those stupidities to the heart. But it never occurred to me that Galadriel ... that is, she was so eager to marry that wood-sailor .”  
“Ha ha. Wood-sailor: it was Caranthir who call him like that.”  
“The boy has a spark for nicknames.”  
“The boy has a spark for many things.”  
“Even to conquer a queen without help from anyone.”  
“Even to win the heart of a she-warrior without the intervention of anyone. And of course Galadriel was anxious to marry Celeborn and get away from us: she did not want to be around every time Fingon and Maedhros ... you know.”  
“Everybody knows.”  
“Everyone always knew, brother”, shrugged Lalwen. “That's what I call true love: knowing that it does not matter in which direction the storm is dragging you, you will always return to the same place.”

Fingolfin concealed the grimace that pushed his lips: Lalwen's words seemed to correspond with the conversation he and Fëanor had three weeks ago. If it was not because he knew it was impossible for his two brothers to be in the same room without the end of the world beginning, he would have sworn that those two had spoken. 

“I guess it's a definition as good as any other “, he said, without compromising.  
“Yes, the definition of true love depends on each one. For some it can be sacrificed so that the person they love is happy.”

This time, Fingolfin frowned, feeling the blow; but before he could answer, Lalwen leaned over the documents and said: 

"Fëanor is working with you?"  
"Not anymore.”  
“For?”

They contemplated each other in silence. Fingolfin clicked his tongue and left his sister. 

"We had a disagreement. We decided that it was not good for us to spend so much time together.”  
“Really? And when did that revelation occur?” Arched an eyebrow Lalwen. “Before ... or after having sex?”

Fingolfin choked on his own breath. Lalwen watched him without moving while coughing and looking for the amphora with fresh water to drink directly from it. 

“Would you mind repeating that, Írien Finwiel?” Fingolfin demanded in a still raspy voice; but adopting the pose of High King that made to babble his vassals. Unfortunately for him, Lalwen had never been impressed by his leadership skills.

“Don’t play the puritan with me, Nolvo” she grumbled, with boredom. “We've known each other for a long time so you can pretend in my presence. It was sex that complicated the wonderful coexistence, huh? Sometimes it happens that way. Believe me: I know from experience.” She studied the pale face of his brother. “Or ... is it that you have not done it yet? Was that what caused Fëanor to burst again?”  
“Our **brother** has not done anything.”  
“Was it you?” She was surprised, ignoring on purpose the emphasis that Fingolfin made on kinship. “I never would have believed it. You always seem so ... in control of yourself. Even with Hador you behaved at all times like the king ...”  
“Lalwen, enough. We are not having this conversation.”  
“Oh, but we're having it, Fingolfin. I'm here because you're my favorite brother, because I had no idea what was happening when I decided to come visit you; but now that I know, you're not going to get rid of it easily. Look at me, Arakáno: do you love him?”

Fingolfin contemplated her gray eyes for a moment - gray as Finwë's and as penetrating as Indis's - and with an impatient gesture, answered:

“ Of course I love him: he is my brother.”  
“Do not fill my patience, Arakáno: you know I do not have too much.”  
“ I'd say you have none.”  
“I'd say I'm going to kick your shin if you do not answer me.”  
“And I'd say you'd have to reach me first.”  
“Don’t challenge me, brother: I was the one who taught your son to handle the bow.”  
“And I was the one who taught you.”  
“And I'll be the one to show you how it hurts a slap.”  
“Get in line: there are others before you.”  
“Fëanor, I suppose. How bad is the thing?” she asked, worried.  
“Dreadful, I think. I don’t know if it can be fixed at some point.”

Lalwen took a deep breath as she approached him to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm surprised you're so pessimistic. Is this the same elf who thought that everything had a remedy even after his brother threatened his life?”  
“We were fighting for a crown, Lalwen: it can’t be compared.”  
“For a crown? Did you really fight for the crown, Arakáno?” She watched him for a few seconds, hesitantly. “Or did you fight to show him that you were his equal?”  
“It's the same.”  
“No, it's not. Everyone knew that you were a better prince than he was.”  
“Father didn’t see it like that.”  
“Father never believed that one day one of his children would **actually** sit on his throne. We were immortal, brother. We were invincible.”  
“We were ignorant, naive like newborn children and our awakening was abrupt and painful.”  
“I remember: I was there when we woke up. And it was also there when you took the reins of our destiny, when you put yourself at the head of our people and guided us as a true king must do. Also, I was there when you buried all your feelings and you dedicated yourself to us.”  
“You make it seem like I became a heartless being, little sister”, Fingolfin growled, squinting. 

She contemplated him in silence and crossing her arms, she replied:

“It wasn’t like that? Do you know what our subjects called you? _Aran i-Heleg_. The Laegil even believed that according to your temperament it would be winter. When ... when your affection for Hador was noticed, the belief spread that spring would be much better as long as that affection lasted.”  
“Did they think my mood controlled the stations?” Fingolfin raised his eyebrows. “Wait! My affection for Hador was noticed? That is, who ...?”  
“Everybody. Well, at least everyone who lived in Barad Eithel ... uh ... many people actually. And the rumors ran. Also, winter was really less hard while Hador was by your side. There were some who ... well, some of our friends got very upset when Hador married Gildis: they thought that the human was selfish by not considering the welfare of others.”  
“I never heard such ridiculous”, Fingolfin rubbed the bridge of his nose, disgusted. “As if I had accepted Hador to stay with me just to guarantee a good season, something that it was not true that I could control!”  
“Eh ... I differ a bit: we have all heard what the Three Rings’ holders could do with their environment .”  
“I didn’t have a damn magic jewel, Lalwen.”  
“Whatever”, she disclaimed, shaking a hand carelessly. “But it is definitely true that you did not show your feelings more than very rarely and now ... You are much more affordable when you are fine with Fëanor.”  
“I do not understand your detours, sister.”  
“You understand them perfectly. It's something that you and I have always had: we understand each other without much explanation. If you love him, Nolvo, don’t think about it that much. Love’s not made of thoughts.”  
“We're brothers, Lalwen. Fëanor is my brother. I'm his brother.”  
“And Maglor is my nephew.”  
“Lalwen ...”  
“And I could never love him as such. I tried. I tried until my heart hurt so much that I stopped feeling it. I searched everywhere for what I did not dare to take from him ... and he got tired of waiting for me. I'm not upset that he married.” She quickly clarified and upon perceiving Fingolfin's suspicious look, she admitted: “I was. At first. I confess that it was ... difficult to accept that he went ahead, that he left me on the road and found someone else to love; but in reality, with whom I am furious is with myself. It was me who failed, Nolvo. It was me who did not have enough courage to take what I wanted. And I regret. I will regret my whole life ... all the lives that belong to me.”  
“I'm sorry”, he mused and taking her by one shoulder, he pulled her to his chest to hug her as he did when she was a child. 

Lalwen let herself be lulled by her favorite brother, fighting the bitterness that invariably flooded her soul at the thought of Maglor and what might have been. Finally, she moved away to raise his eyes to Fingolfin's face. 

"That's why I'm telling you, Arakáno: don’t let it go. If Fëanor is the one who makes your heart beat, do not let anything stand between you two.”  
“It's not that simple, Lalwen.”  
“Isn’t it? The truth is that love is not complicated: it is we who complicate it. Unless”, she pouted and watched Fingolfin carefully. “Unless you're not sure what you feel for him right now.”

Fingolfin's hands lingered on his sister's curls for a moment, before he let her go and walked away to return to his desk. 

Lalwen followed him with her eyes, ready to press him to tell him the truth. Fingon's visit had clarified many things to the princess. She was aware of how the relations between his older brothers were going: Caranthir was going through almost all day in her house so it was inevitable that they would talk. However, and although Lalwen suspected that something more than brotherly affection was cooking between those two, she did not think they had made much progress. She knew Fingolfin - she knew he was stubborn, stern, proud, cold, dangerous ... and full of love to give - and it did not take her too smart to understand Fëanor - he was superb, conceited, self-sufficient, a pain in the ass ... and an insecure child in need of love. When she and Findis were younger - before the death of Finwë and the Darkening, and everything else - both used to laugh at them and comment that they looked like a couple in love fighting because they dare not say they love each other. Maybe they were telling the truth already in that time. Lalwen had not seriously considered the consequences of her brothers being loved as more than brothers; but Fingon had come to her in terror, assuring that Fingolfin could not bear to lose Fëanor ... and that Fëanor would not bear to be rejected. She did not care if Míriel's son threw himself off a cliff lovesick; but she did worry about how her beloved brother would feel if that happened. 

“Arakáno “, she called softly, going to him.  
“I don’t know.”

Lalwen stopped short when her brother looked at her: Fingolfin had been the only one to inherit the cobalt blue eyes of King Ingwë and now there was such uncertainty in them that Lalwen was almost frightened. Even as he left for death, Fingolfin Finwion had seemed so disoriented. 

“You do not know if ...”  
“I don’t know how I should feel. I don’t know if it's right or wrong. I mean, I know it's wrong to feel ... what I feel for my brother ...”  
“Half-brother.”  
“Whatever. I know it's horrible and ... and ... I should be disgusted with myself; but at the same time it's as if ... as if I could finally be myself. It's as if at last he was alive again. I have not felt something like that since ...”  
“Since Hador”, she concluded for him, not very sure that the comparison would make Fëanor happy.  
“And again I have to hide what I feel. I have the feeling that you’re not the only one to have deduced my relationship ... the change in my relationship with Fëanor. How long before the rumors start? Before they point us with their finger? Before they judge us?”  
“It worries you? That people judge you, I mean.”  
“Fëanor is trying so hard, Lalwen. He is trying so hard to be ... someone more than the terrible legend that everyone remembers. He is trying so hard to find a place in the world, in this new world.”  
“Maybe _this_ is his place, Arakáno: beside you. Maybe this is the way that you two be happy.”  
“What if it is not? What if he repents? What if the love he feels for me is not enough to supply the acceptance of others?”  
“What if the Sun doesn’t come out again? What if the Moon falls? What if the Trees die? What if the Valar abandon us? What if Morgoth comes back? And if the darkness comes? We already went through some of those, right? And here we are: ready to continue.  
“We died, remember?”  
“No one dies of love, Arakáno; at least not in our family. Father didn’t die of love when Míriel left him; mother didn’t die when father was killed; Turgon didn’t die when Elenwë drowned; I didn’t die when Maglor got married; Maedhros didn’t die when Fingon ... We are strong: we are Finwii. We do not die of love: we fight for it and move on. Also, if Fëanor manages to catch you, I doubt he'll ever let you go.”

Instead of appeasing, the uncertainty in Fingolfin's blue eyes deepened, which made Lalwen smile instead of frowning. 

"It's not just Fëanor's inconstancy and the opinion of others that you're afraid of."  
“I do not fear nothing, Lalwen. I faced a god.”  
“You knew you were going to die. As you did know that your relationship with Hador had an expiration date; but not your relationship with Fëanor. We're supposed to love once for life ... and you've never loved like that.”  
“Anairë ...”  
“She’s your best friend and possibly your most lasting lover; but not your _beloved_. It’s normal to be afraid of being in a situation that you cannot control. You've always had that mania of wanting to control everything: the schedules, the behavior, the reaction of others ... your emotions. And this situation is beyond your control. You can’t predict what will happen in the future and you can't control your own behavior when you are with him. That is why you have established this distance between both of you.”  
“I'm not a damn controller, Lalwen. I didn’t control my emotions when falling in love with a human.”  
“You didn’t? Did you forget that I was there, too, Arakáno? From the first moment, you knew when and how that relationship would end. You always knew how far you were willing to go and it was you who decided the future of your lover. Do not try to fool me, brother. And stop hiding in your relationship with Hador to distance yourself from other relationships! Hador and Fëanor have nothing in common. I know ... I am certain that your life with Fëanor will not be a bed of roses. You will argue, you will fight, you will get angry at each other ... and you will look for each other again. As you always did. Why are you so afraid to let yourself be carried away by this feeling?” laughed with tenderness. 

Fingolfin bit his lower lip. He hated when one of his siblings was right. 

“Because it terrifies me what he makes me feel”, he confessed in a whisper. “It takes all my common sense. I'm close to him and I can only think ... I cannot think, in fact! At his side, I am only able to _feel_. That's not right, Lalwen: I must think of others, of morals, of ... of ... What would Turgon think if he knew? And Mother? If Father came to know that we ... I do not even want to think about the reaction of Finarfin.”  
“Yeah, Finarfin.” Lalwen made an arcade when she mentioned her younger brother, whom she was only two years older. “What a horror of prude and preacher: an avarin orgy would have come very well to improve his character. As for Mother: you will have to ask her opinion and maybe you will even be surprised. Father ... Father would be happy with any circumstance in which you two are well and at peace. Now Turgon ... wait, the same Turgon that stayed in his crystal tower while the flames destroyed us? I do not care what he says and you should have slapped him when you met him again. Elenwë slapped him: I was present. Idril does not care what his father says: why do you?”  
“Because it will not be only Turgon who rejects us.”  
“And for every person who despises you, you will have one that respects and supports you. If your son doesn’t support you, rest assured that Fingon will ...”  
“I’ve never doubted Fingon's loyalty ...”  
“And Aredhel. Idril. Lómion Gil. Me. We’ll be with you always. And if that was not enough, is not Fëanor worth risking losing everything? That is the real question, brother.”

“Yes.”

Lalwen was speechless. Despite all his protests and doubts, this time Fingolfin had responded without hesitation. 

“I guess you already have the answer you were looking for”, she smiled, amused. 

Fingolfin blinked, stunned by his own sincerity.

“I ... I think maybe I should ..."  
“Tell the nasty Fëanor? Mhm ... surely. But now you're going to have lunch with me. I didn’t come from my house here so that now you leave me lying down and run after that useless one. Let's celebrate that I am your conscience.”  
“You are not my conscience. You are a horror like conscience.”  
“Nolofinwë Arakáno, don’t tell those things to your younger sister”, she scolded him, giving voice as a teacher.  
“It's true.”  
“You are unpleasant: it seems that the bad character of Fëanor is contagious.”  
“ Anyone would have bad character if ...”


	15. Chapter 15

Fëanor said goodbye to Nerdanel with a kiss on the cheek and took the detour on the road that led to the lake. They had spent the last week in one of the small towns that popped up everywhere in Valinor since the elves began arriving from Middle-earth. The inhabitants of the village were mainly avari, so Fëanor had not had to deal with recriminating looks or murmurs in his path. It had been nice to be a stranger for a few days; but all the time he was anxious to return. When he found himself on the road that led to Tirion, his heart jumped for joy as if he were fifty years old again and his first thought was that there were five weeks left for Midwinter.

The first snowfall had occurred a few days ago and everyone commented that this winter seemed to be more benevolent than the previous ones. Fëanor did not remember having lived a memorable cold season in Valinor, so he was quite intrigued about it. As Nerdanel proposed, a few days before leaving on his excursion with her, he had gone to visit Findis to document himself about the apparent indolence of the Valar towards the vicissitudes of the elves under his rule.

Findis - with her usual mellifluous and lack of emotion tone - explained that the Valar did not exercise the rule of the Elven Clans as in the past. In addition, she informed him that there was a belief that with the passing of the Ages, the powers of the Valar could require "recharge": perhaps they would require a time to regain all their might. It was known that Morgoth had lost much of his power by passing it on to his creations: it also seemed that protecting Valinor and keeping the Straight Path open so that the elves in Middle Earth could find it consumed the energy of the rulers of Arda. Fëanor was not very satisfied with the explanation, although it seemed plausible. He promised himself that he would think about the matter more calmly.  
However, when he saw the lake flanked by the two buildings, the only thing that filled his mind was the certainty of the closeness of Fingolfin.

The houses reflected the character of their owners. Fëanor’s house consisted of two floors, was wider horizontally and showed many doors that remained open. Next to it were two huge workshops and a fruitful orchard. Fingolfin’s house, on the other hand, had a more "lordly" aspect: it also had two floors; but it was flanked by a turret and the high strut of the upper floor betrayed the existence of an attic. This was surrounded by a garden and the terrace communicated with the path that led to the dock, in which was tied the "flagship" that Fingolfin called _yacht_ and that was a gift of Angrod and Aegnor.

Míriel's son looked at the house painted light blue and with an effort, he stopped himself from running towards it to see his brother.

"A few more weeks," he reminded himself as turned and took the gravel path leading to the door of his dwelling.

 

As usual, silence received him. By the hour, Caranthir must remain at school with Lalwen, Celegorm was probably on one of the therapeutic trips with Aredhel, Curufin must have been in the workshop, and the twins spent a lot of time at their maternal grandfather's house. Maedhros would be where Fingon was and Maglor and Nemmireth must have gone to town on one of their _honeymoon_ tours. Once again, Fëanor missed the bustle that always welcomed him in Formenos, preventing him from thinking.

“Tired? I thought you’d never get here.”

For a second, Fëanor forgot to breathe.

Fingolfin put aside the book he was reading - a manual of military strategies by a human writer from the Eastern nations that was called something like "War is an Art" and that was brought to Valinor by the Blue Wizards when they were summoned - and stood up slowly. He dressed casually and wore his hair braided only on his left temple, according to the new fashion in Tirion. Fëanor noticed that he had shaved his face, giving a triangular shape to the sideburns.

“Are you expecting me?” he asked, unable to look away from him.

Fingolfin smiled, cocking his mouth, and put his hands in his pockets.

“The truth is - I invaded your house because I couldn’t find sugar in mine”, he confessed, shrugging.  
“Celegorm finished it?”  
“He and Aredhel were making cakes yesterday. It was a miracle that the kitchen didn’t explode.”  
“Are they cooking together already?”  
“Apparently it’s possible to cook with someone without having to talk to them.”  
“At least it's an advance.”  
“Advance is that Húan no longer destroys my carpets.”  
“Does he sleep outside?”  
“He's less stressed since they don’t argue.”  
“All right.” Fëanor looked at the kitchen and added, uncertainly: “Did you find the sugar?”  
“No. I'm going to use honey, which I do have at home. I hope it does not change the taste much.”

Fëanor observed him take his book and go to the door. Arriving at his side, Fingolfin stopped and turned to him.

“Welcome home, Curufinwë. I missed you.” And without further ado, he kissed him on the cheek, almost at the corner of his mouth. “I wait for you to dinner.”

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Let lycanthropes devoured his soul if he knew what Fingolfin was up to; but he was not going to be the one to reject such an invitation. 

Fëanor studied his image in the mirror, valuing once again the choice of costumes. He had never worried what to wear: for Aulë’s beards, he was the most beautiful of the Noldor! His best outfit was when he was naked; but that was not an option tonight - not as long as he was not aware of Fingolfin's intentions.  
He ran a hand across his chest - visible between the overlapping lapels of the maroon robe - and his fingers fidgeted for a second with the ruby star that hung from a gold chain around his neck. His hair was tucked into a ponytail on the top of his head, tied with a black leather ribbon to match the unadorned belt. 

“You're not a damn teenager, Curufinwë Fëanáro!” he growled at his reflection. “Nolofinwë is just being a good brother. It's not a special dinner or anything like that.”

Drawing a deep breath, he stepped away from the mirror and left the room. 

 

Fuck. **It was a damn special dinner.**

Fëanor had to pinch his thigh to avoid an exclamation of surprise and fascination at the sight of Fingolfin.  
Finwë's second son wore one of those Sindarin tunics with long skirts that clung to the torso and discovered the tight pants when opening to the front. The rigid neck of the piece was raised around the throat to show the union of the clavicles: just at that point, a clasp of sapphire and silver closed the tunic. The jewel had the shape of a flower of sharp petals and had been carved from a single gem before being set in the frame of virgin silver.  
A smile curled Fëanor's lips as he recognized the jewel. Instinctively, Fingolfin raised a hand to brush the gem with the fingertips. 

"Anairë kept many of my possessions that I did not take to Middle-earth," he confessed, blushing.  
“I guess a lot of my gifts survived in her hands then.”  
“Not really. Many of your gifts were lost during the crossing of the Helcaraxë and others I lost when the Bragollach. Those I managed to rescue were lost after the Nirnaeth. The circlet that you gave me for my coming of age - well, that I suppose was lost with my grave in Gondolin.”

Pain cut Fëanor's breathing off. If he had not known that Fingolfin would not allow it, he would have slapped himself at that moment for all the suffering he caused the elf in front of him. 

“I know I've said it too many times; but - I'm sorry, Nolvo; I'm truly sorry. There is not a day that I do not regret what I did to you.”

Fingolfin stared at him, without his eyes - same blue as the jewel on his chest - showed any emotion. 

“Your repentance scares me sometimes.”  
“It is sincere, I assure you.”  
“That's what scares me the most.” Fëanor frowned at his words and Fingolfin continued: "Guilt can be a motive as strong as love.”  
“You will not believe that I ...?”  
“I invited you to dinner to celebrate”, the younger interrupted him and forced a careless smile. “Come. Table is set and dinner awaits.”

He turned around, but before he reached the dining room door, Fëanor stopped him with a question. 

"Nolvo, did I make you like this?" 

Fingolfin knew what he was asking. Like this? So insecure, distrustful, suspicious ... fearful. 

“No, Curufinwë “, he replied softly. “I made myself like this. Come.”

The table was set for two and Fëanor felt the saliva build up in his mouth as he smelled the food. Among many other things, Fingolfin was a magnificent chef. The desserts were his specialty; but in general he was good at the whole culinary part. While Fëanor did not go beyond the basic dishes, his brother was able to prepare the menu of a sophisticated protocol dinner without hesitation. Míriel's son remembered how many times Indis and his favorite son discussed a party menu, to Lalwen's embarrassment and Nerdanel's bewilderment, who never understood that the seemly Grand Prince was capable of understanding the interiors of a kitchen - or what wine accompanies what meat. 

Of course, there were no servants in either house, for which the most powerful princes of the Noldor served themselves, commenting on the latest news of Tirion and laughing at the customs of the Noldorin Court. 

“Well, the city may have changed “, Fëanor said, raising his eyebrows; “but the mentality of most of our compatriots is still anchored in the Years of the Trees.”  
“Young people are going faster now; but many of those who occupy important positions in our society never left Aman’s shores.”  
“Some of the Reincarnates are in public charges.”  
“Do you mean my son and Penlod?” Fingolfin grimaced. “Gondolin was a redoubt of those who longed to return to Valinor. Very few among them sought freedom. Look at Glorfindel: he's a damn hero who even fought in the War of the Ring and helped defeat Sauron, killed a balrog ... “  
“What a lucky guy”, Fëanor grumbled.  
“And he hasn’t even been invited to join the Council. Ecthelion.”  
“Another lucky one.”  
“A powerful warrior with innovative ideas, a prestigious engineer: he’s taking care of his garden in the outskirts of Alqualondë. Rog ...”  
“Did he also kill a balrog?” Fëanor was frightened.  
“Uh ... he and his followers killed a few before being exterminated.”  
“Fuck!”  
“In addition to brave, although a lousy strategist, he’s a skilled craftsman with vast knowledge. His grandmother is a member of the Aulendili and not even that has managed to get him a place in one of the Guilds.”  
“Finarfin does not like artisans, remember? He's more of sailors and archers.”  
"That's a joke in bad taste, Curufinwe," Fingolfin retorted. "Our brother is as loyal to his Noldorin heritage as we are.”  
“You definitely are. What did you inherit from your mother?”  
“The tolerance to deal with you.”  
“Seriously? I had no idea that Indis the Fair is so violent.”  
“You don’t know my mother at all.”  
“Uh - in fact - I know she is a respectable archer, a magnificent amazon and that few in Tirion could beat her in a race. In addition, she is a very good portraitist.”  
“And you are an asshole to know those qualities and not value them. She is also a spectacular mother.”  
“I have no doubt: look at the son she raised.”

Fingolfin had no choice but to stick his tongue out before making a slight bow of thanks. They had finished with the dessert - of which Fëanor took three portions and kept playing with the crumbs on his plate like a child - and Fingolfin stood up to look for another bottle of wine. 

Fëanor frowned and stopped licking the crumbs of his finger when he saw that his brother was uncorking a bottle of the famous avarin wine. 

“That's ... a very expensive wine.” He pointed, frowning. “What exactly are we celebrating? I mean: elegant clothes, dinner with the whole menu ... the most expensive wine in Valinor.”  
“ Do you know why it's so expensive?” Fingolfin asked as he cleaned the top of the bottle and proceeded to serve the glasses. “The existing bottles are all that remains of this wine. The Avari did it in Middle-earth and used spices to flavor it that don’t grow in Valinor since it was separated from the physical world. Apparently, these plants were affected by ... the changes in Middle Earth ... “  
“By the influence of Morgoth, you mean.”  
“Possibly. It's what gives it a slightly bitter taste and what makes it so strong. The fact is that this wine can’t be produced in our paradise. Yavanna has declared herself incapable of reproducing the spices used: although the plants grow in Valinor, they don’t have the same flavor.”  
“Too much purity of spirit. What a pity that the best wine comes from Morgoth.”  
“Everyone has a role in the world.”  
“And Morgoth's is giving Avarin wine a good taste.”  
“Definitely.” Fingolfin handed him a drink and held his cup aloft.  
“Let's make a toast, right?” half-smiled Fëanor. “Something like ... ‘prosperous years and warm nights’ .”  
“Actually, we’re celebrating that yesterday I handed over the genealogies of the Three Houses of the Edain and - they paid me.”  
“Seriously?” The elder frowned, still not raising his glass.  
“Yeah. So, in essence, we’re celebrating my first real salary.”

Fëanor blinked, stunned, noticing the expression of happiness of his half-brother. A smile parted his lips as he thought that none in Tirion would hardly be able to imagine that something as simple as paying for a job would bring such joy to the hero who confronted Morgoth. 

“Then, for your first salary”, he said, raising his glass to collide with Fingolfin's. 

Wine ran down his throat, leaving a slight furrow of fire that heated his veins. As if he needed more warmth being so close to Fingolfin, Fëanor almost grumbled at the heat of his stomach. 

Fingolfin instead drank slowly, tasting the drink and studying the color of the liquid in his chalice. Fëanor watched him silently, reveling in the familiar features, in the curve of his eyelashes ... Fingolfin had very provocative eyelashes: abundant and jet black, almost giving the impression that he had painted his eyes as the females and Avari used to.

“Your first real salary you said”, he said, forcing himself to leave the contemplation.  
“That's right. Before, when I was a member of the Council, I didn’t receive a payment for my work: it was my duty as Grand Prince. Later, as regent, I didn’t receive anything either and finally, as High King ...”  
“You were everything’s owner.”  
“Actually mine I had very few things compared to the resources I administered. My house was modest enough to belong to the queen's eldest son and my jewelry was scarce if you look at other families.”  
"Your library was worth half Tirion," Fëanor recalled with a touch of envy. “And your garden was a paradise.”  
“Anairë’s garden. You possessed many more assets than me. And lands.”  
“I inherited a lot from my mother. What happened to your books?”  
“The majority were distributed between Anairë and the Public Library after our departure. I could barely take a few dozen.” He pouted. “Only five or six came to Mithrim with me. Don’t say you're sorry. I heard you before.”  
“They were good books. Most of them. The garden?”  
“I sold the house when I was reincarnated. I used the money to buy my part of this land.”  
“I'm surprised they respected some of our properties. Especially mine.”  
“Eh - we had some defenders. The Council intended that the properties of the Exiles would all belong to the Crown in compensation for - everything we take away and to pay for the damages we cause.”  
“I get it. Defenders?”  
“Findis, Mathan - and my mother. Mainly. They argued that according to Námo's own words we would be reincarnated one day if we died in Middle-earth and by that time we should have the means to live without depending on the benevolence of our compatriots. Which was proven not to be much.”  
“I guess now they are regretting having saved two mines for me and only your house in the city for you.”  
“Your family is more extensive and I didn’t have many properties to rescue. Anairë hurried to claim all that she could get away from the Councilors; but she couldn’t take land to Alqualondë and in a way, she was also considered a deserter when she stayed on the other side of the negotiations.”

Fëanor bit the inside of his cheek, reflecting on the fact that not only those who left had suffered the consequences of their actions. 

“You know that all I have belongs to you too, right?”

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow, taken by surprise by his serious tone. 

“Considering that we are one family - I had already thought about it”, he shrugged.  
“Speaking of which, do you think Gil and Celebrimbor take a long time to announce it?”  
“I'm not even sure they have something to announce.”  
“What do you mean? They spend all their time together!”  
“That would seem; but actually Gil is hardly at home most of the day and Celebrimbor spends a lot of time in my studio. I know they’re good friends; but -it doesn’t feel like there's a relationship there.”  
“ Now that you mention it”, said Fëanor, thoughtful, “it is true that one cannot perceive that - spark in them. Like when you're near Maedhros and Fingon.”  
“Oh, are there any partners in the Elvish or human story - or any race that can be compared to those two? Sometimes I feel that I just get soaked to see them.”  
“How unromantic you are, Nolofinwë.”  
“I never thought you were a young girl eager for romantic novels.”  
“Love is beautiful to see.”  
“Our sons overcame the barrier of **beautiful** to become **stifling**. They even walk in sync!”  
“They've always done that.”  
“That's what's weird! With whom was Maedhros synchronized before Finno was born?”  
“With nobody. You and I were like that too, remember?” He pointed nostalgically. 

Fingolfin watched him without answering. Fëanor's gray eyes glowed with the memories of the times when they used to work together: the way they moved without stumbling, complementing each other's movements, how they understood each other without words and without _osanwë_ when they went out into the field. Yes, Fingolfin also remembered those times - times in which no doubt overshadowed the relationship between them, in which being next to Fëanor and being his other half was, simply, _natural_. 

“Idril is pregnant”, he announced, cutting the thread of memories. 

Fëanor opened his eyes wide, bewildered by the change of subject.

“How ...”  
“Well, I think that Lómion had something to do - probably had a lot to do ...”  
“Oh Eru, my brother the jester is back. I think I can give you some classes about how exactly that happens: I earn you for four children.”  
"Two were at once so they count as one.”  
“I still have an advantage. How did you know?”  
“She wrote me yesterday. It seems that Lómion is very excited ... and very scared, so he has put on some overprotective. Idril wants me to visit them and have a talk with him.”  
“I have nothing to say.”  
“No, you don’t. You went crazy every time Nerdanel got pregnant.”  
“I had my reasons.” He watched him while drinking and smiled mockingly. “You're going to look older than me. You're going to be a grandfather again.”  
“Eh ... great-grandfather. And you're a grandpa too, remember?”  
“ Only once ...”  
“Elrond calls Maglor and Maedhros ‘dad’.”  
“He is adopted. And the way I go, I will not have many more grandchildren. Unless Aredhel has mercy of Celegorm or that Nemmireth manages to convince Maglor. No wonder you were willing to celebrate: I suppose you were the first to know the happy news.”  
“I was”, he laughed proudly. “My grandchildren are doing very well and are happy at last. Now it's time for Gil to define what he has with Celebrimbor. Or what he does not have.”  
"Is that all you need to be completely happy?" 

Fëanor cursed himself inwardly for having asked when he see how Fingolfin's cheeks were dyed pink. 

_Don’t push, asshole_ , roared in his mind. 

Fingolfin raised his eyebrows, as if he had heard his inner scolding.

“I think it's time for me to retire”, announced Fëanor, getting up. “Avarin wine is good; but loose the tongue.”  
“Stay to sleep with me.”  
"What?" 

Fingolfin took a deep breath and took a last drink before standing up in front of him. 

“Stay to sleep. Just sleep. I'm not offering - anything else.”

He blushed once more and Fëanor told himself that he had no idea that his half-brother was so shy. 

“I mean, if it does not bother you ...”  
“I love the idea of spending the night with you”, Fëanor hastened to interrupt, fearing that Fingolfin would regret it. “Just sleep. Love the idea.”  
“Good”, Fingolfin let out his breath. “But first we have to wash the dishes.”


	16. Chapter 16

Sleeping was a good idea. Sleeping was the best idea in the world. In fact, sleeping was ... torture.

Fëanor contemplated the king-size bed without showing his internal turmoil. Why the hell had he agreed to this? Did he really think he could spend an _entire_ night sharing bed with Fingolfin ... and _not touching him_? One thing was clear: Fingolfin was going to sleep while he kept awake, watching him and making sure he kept his distance.

“ It's a bed, Curufinwë; not a torture rack.”

He half turned to face his half-brother’s mocking expression.

“You're wicked, little boy “, he hissed. “Am I always so transparent?”  
“Only for me. Most people didn’t know what was happening until your anger fell on them. Are you going to change or prefer to sleep with your party clothes?”

An armor would be better, thought Fëanor; but he took care to make the comment and without speaking, he accepted the clothes that Fingolfin offered him.

Fëanor leaned over the marble sink, staring at his face in the mirror.  
“You can do it, idiot”, he growled quietly. “You have slept with him thousands of times. Millions. You are stronger than temptation.”

Determined, he left the bathroom and found Fingolfin sitting on the edge of the bed, reading some papers. While Fëanor was getting ready in the bathroom, his brother had changed the elegant outfit for a light shirt open in front and silk pants that outlined his muscular legs. He had also brushed his hair and was wearing it in a bun bent at the top of his head.

“Paperwork?” Fëanor asked, trying to ignore that the clothes that he himself wore smelled like Fingolfin and that they were almost naked with only a few meters between them.  
“A letter from Anairë. It arrived this morning- but with the preparations for dinner I hadn’t had time to read it.”  
“And - what does Haldatári tell?”

Fingolfin looked up to smile at him - what Fëanor took as an invitation to approach - and returned to focus on the letter.

“It's her anniversary in a few days. Among other things, she invites me to the party they will celebrate in Alqualondë.”  
“Are you going?”, almost winced the older when he was lying in bed, on one side.  
“I’d take you with me if Eärwen wouldn’t be present.”  
“That's impossible.”  
“Anairë wouldn’t mind.”  
“But Eärwen does - You have to take her a gift.”  
“Tomorrow I'll buy something.”  
“When do you leave?”  
“I don’t know - two days? I'll be there for about three weeks. Can you manage without me? Won’t you cause a problem?”  
“Nerdanel will be watching me. And half of Tirion. Although maybe I’ll consider going to borrow some boats just to see you. We should go see the stars at Tol Eressea.”  
“You can see the stars in all Valinor now.”  
“Yes, what a disgrace”, he sighed, disappointed. “What else does Anairë say? It's too much paper for a simple invitation.”  
“There's -more than one invitation. Eärwen - Queen Eärwen is inviting me to be part of her team of advisers. Apparently, Lómion has had great success as a blacksmith and artisan and some teleri - a good part of the teleri actually - think that a guild of blacksmiths could do with it.”  
“And that would avoid having to negotiate with our Metalworkers Guild.”  
“Eh - yes.”  
“Are you going to accept? You should live in Alqualondë.”  
“ Not necessarily. I could be there for a few weeks and others here. The trip to Alqualondë can be done in a day with a good horse.”  
“I cannot go to Alqualondë”,Fëanor reminded him, paling.

Before Fingolfin could answer, Finwë's eldest son sat up on the bed and started to leave. It was said, right? Of course Fingolfin was not going to reject him directly: he was giving him little clues so that he himself understood and Fëanor was the most intelligent of the Noldor - who were reputed to be the smartest elves among all the clans.

“ Where are you going?”

Fëanor turned to look at Fingolfin, who left Anairë's letter to one side and leaned in search of him. The youngest's fingers had caught the edge of his shirt and held him gently.

“This was a bad idea”, declared Fëanor.  
“ Of course not. Get back here.” As Fëanor did not move, Fingolfin released his clothes and walked away a little more. “I'm not going to live in Alqualondë. I was just discussing the feasibility of the idea. Come. I won’t read any more letters tonight and you ... you just lie down at once, Curufinwë.”

The artisan would have wanted to rebel against the order that Fingolfin’s words were carrying; but after a brief moment, he sat on the bed and proceeded to lie on his back, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.

Fingolfin kept Anairë's letter on the bedside table and, with a wave of his hand, turned the lights of the room off to leave only a small lamp by the door.

Fëanor was startled to feel the weight of a hand on his chest. He was so absorbed in chewing on his thoughts that he had not felt Fingolfin coming near until being above him. Instinctively, he covered his brother's hand with his and sought the glitter of blue eyes in the gloom. 

"We've slept together thousands of times, Curufinwe," Fingolfin mused, feeling the accelerated beats of his heart. “And we will do many more. Relax please.”  
“I do not want to do something you dislike “, confessed Fëanor.  
“Then embrace me as always.”

Fëanor felt the flash of his partner's smile and felt his chest loosen. This was correct. No matter what anyone said, what the laws said ... feeling that way - in peace - had to be right. Cautiously, he slid his fingers down the back of Fingolfin's hand, up his forearm to his elbow, then continued to his shoulder. When his hand rested on his brother's neck, he bent down to touch his forehead with his. They changed position without separating until they were on their sides, facing each other, hugging each other. Fingolfin pulled back a little; but just to press a kiss on his brother's forehead. 

"Did you miss me?" 

The question left Fëanor's lips in an intimate, warm whisper. 

Fingolfin knew exactly what he was asking. Fëanor was not referring to that week away from home; but to the more than fifty years that mediated between the reincarnation of one and the other - and beyond, to the millennia that took to reunite, to the thousands of years that they lived in the same city behaving like rivals. 

“All the time”, Fingolfin answered without hesitation and without taking his lips from his skin. “Good”, Fëanor sighed and threw his head back to look for him. 

Fingolfin descended gently until he touched his parted lips with his. 

“I love you”, he murmured in his mouth and Fëanor was about to laugh aloud, euphoric. 

However, Fingolfin did pretend to sleep. With careful hands, he massaged the back of his older brother until almost all the tension left him and Fëanor had no choice but to settle next to him and close his eyes, defeated. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

_“It's a very important party, Fëanáro. Prince Ingwion will be present. It's your duty as my heir ... "_  
_" I have more important things than wasting time in a stupid ball, Father. "_

_Finwë stopped in the middle of the gallery, slowly breathing to arm himself with patience. Of course, his son sensed his effort; but he also knew that his father would not put too much pressure on him. Finwë would do anything to please him and one of them was to leave him alone._

_“Fëanáro, one day it could be your responsibility to preside over those ‘stupid balls’”, the king reminded him._  
_“Do not say nonsense. In addition, I promised Nerdanel that we would go explore the caves on the northern slope of the Calacirya. We'll have to leave in two days and there's a lot to prepare.”_  
_“Exploring the caves? Nelyo is barely two years old, Fëanáro!” Finwë was scared. “Are you going to leave him so soon with other people? "_  
_" Your children spend a lot of time with their child-minders, " Fëanáro pointed sourly._  
_" Indis does not stay far from Nolofinwë ... "_  
_" And I'm not going to leave Nelyo with anyone. We will take him with us.”_

_The comment of approval that was forming on Noldóran’s lips turned into an exclamation of terror. With an effort, he restrained the words of reproach and instead said:_

_“You can delay your trip for a week. I need you at that banquet, my son.”_  
_“Rúmil knows as well as you do the rules of diplomacy and your wife will play an acceptable role to win the sympathy of her cousin. You can go through it without me. The caves, on the other hand, will be isolated when the snows arrive and we will have to wait for the change of season to explore them. I cannot wait that long.”_  
_"You can’t ... or you don’t want to?"_

_Fëanor turned at last to observe his father's frown. A few years ago, that expression would have sufficed for him to throw himself into his father's arms, begging for forgiveness and ensuring that he would behave well; but Finwë had proved that his son's affection was not enough to satisfy him: that his new family would help him with his stupid fest._

_“Is not the same?” He raised an eyebrow._

_Finwë blinked, bewildered and opened his mouth to start a string of reproaches; however, a slight shriek followed by the **tap-tap** of tiny feet made them both turn towards the other end of the gallery._  
_A child was running towards them from one of the side aisles. A wide smile illuminated the round face and the blackest curls floated loose around him. He must have been about three years old and was thin and quick like a kitten._

_“A'to!” Shrieked the boy again, hurling himself in the direction of the two adults._

_Finwë frowned when he saw the boy alone and took a step to get ahead of Fëanáro and call the nursemaid; but already the little one had arrived before them and extending his arms as much as he could, he said to Fëanáro:_

_“A'to. Up. Up.”_

_The High King bit his lower lip watching his eldest son bending down without question and took the boy in his arms._

_The boy wrapped his arms around the prince's neck and pressed a wet kiss to the cheek of the young elf._

_“What's in your face? “ Fëanáro demanded when observing him in detail._  
_“Sugar”, replied the infant with a mischievous expression and wore a radiant smile that made the sugar sprinkled on his cheeks and nose shine even more brightly._  
_“He must have taken some of the sweetmeats from the party” Finwë said. “Where is the nursemaid? Nolofinwë cannot walk around alone ...”_  
_“He's with me”, Fëanáro interrupted him while the boy settled on his shoulder and started humming softly._  
_“Nolofinwë thinks you're his father.”_  
_“He is still too young to understand the difference between father and brother,” explained his son. “He will understand.”_  
_“Then, returning to the subject that matters to us ... my son, I ask you once again to stay ...”_  
_“Stay.”_

_Fëanáro ignored his father to contemplate his younger brother. The boy had raised his head and was staring at him with his huge blue eyes._

_“You want me to stay, Nolvo?” half-smiled the Crown Prince. His half-brother nodded emphatically, shaking his head up and down._  
_"Stay," he repeated._  
_“Okay”, agreed Fëanáro and the boy laughed, joyful._  
_“Do you mean you'll go to the ball?” Finwë inquired, with metallic tone._  
_“Yes, father, I will go to that stupid ball”, he replied, with annoyance. “But now, Nolvo and I are going to eat sweets. Do you want more candy, little star?”_  
_“Sweets! Yeah!” exclaimed Nolofinwë, bouncing excitedly on top of his brother._  
_“Are you sure it's sugar that you have in your face?” Fëanáro asked, suspicious. “I think you ate a star. It shines like a star._

_Nolofinwë observed him stunned._

_“Can?”  
“What? Eat a star?” When the boy nodded, the Crown Prince laughed merrily. “You can, treasure. You can eat all the stars you want.” _

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Still with his eyes closed, Fëanor buried his nose in the jet-black hair and breathed in the scent of his brother. Something in him was sweet and at the same time, masculine. He had loved that perfume forever. 

During the night, they had changed their positions so that now Fingolfin lay on his back and Fëanor rested his head on his chest. They were breathing in unison and Fëanor smiled, remembering how many times Nerdanel tried to do that and they ended up laughing at the impossibility of synchronizing their breaths. Why with this elf did everything seem _natural_? 

He moved to slide the tip of his nose down the length of the neck until he could rest his lips on the hole under throat. A shudder ran down his spine as he felt one of Fingolfin's hands move down his shoulders, down between his shoulder blades in a slow caress. Fëanor forced himself not to look for his companion’s lips: he preferred to pretend that the other was still asleep and was reacting unconsciously to his closeness.

He went down Fingolfin's torso, tracing the sternum line with his mouth. He left a trail of moisture on the silk shirt to the navel and played in the small hole with the tip of his tongue until the cloth was so wet that it adhered to the skin. Only then did he search for the edge of the piece and lift it up to lick the naked flesh. He savored the shudder with which the muscles rippled under his touch and for long minutes he devoted himself to exploring the tense belly.  
When Fingolfin stirred beneath him, impatiently, Fëanor whispered a soft reassuring sound, like the one given to babies when they whimper at night without actually waking up: it was something he had done many times when Fingolfin was an infant. Once again, it worked: Fingolfin relaxed and his right hand’s fingers played languidly with the older elf’s loose hair. 

Fëanor gently kissed his brother's abdomen and descended, drawing the union of his pelvis and hip as he slid the leggings down his legs. His teeth drew a ring of desire right next to the heavy testicles of excitement, ignoring the erection in front of his face. His own sex throbbed hungrily between his legs and he could feel the moisture spilling in anticipation. With a deep breath, he forced himself to control the need that circulated in his veins. When he got rid of the loose pants, he got up on his knees and looked at Fingolfin. 

A wave of fire burned his insides: it was the most sensual image he had ever seen. Fingolfin lay with his long legs spread, his cock swinging upright on his slightly contracted abdomen, his silk shirt still wrapped around his midsection, his lips parted and his eyes closed in a sign of total confidence. Fëanor gasped silently, pressing a hand on his own erection to control the impulse. He wanted it to last longer. He wanted this time to last all night. There was something exquisitely delicious about the fact that Fingolfin demanded time to think and at the same time surrender to him with such abandon - as if deep down he were not able to fight against what he felt.

_'Do not press me,'_ he had demanded; but Fëanor was not pressing him. In fact, the Embroiderer's son thought with a mischievous smile, he was doing the opposite of pressing him. 

Slowly, he leaned back between his half-brother’s thighs. With both hands, Fëanor held Fingolfin's legs above his shoulders and applied his mouth to the tight entrance. A slight exclamation was the younger's only protest before he moved to facilitate access. Fëanor made sure to be gentle - soft enough for Fingolfin to enjoy the intrusion and ask for more with the slight waves of his body. Much later and still with his tongue caressing, he used a finger to make his way through the ring of muscles. He continued his voluptuous task until three fingers moved relatively easily inside his lover. He sat up on Fingolfin, leaning on one hand to loosen his pants and kick them off his legs. On his knees, he pulled his shirt over his head and descended on his brother. 

Fingolfin received him with parted lips, offering himself to his kiss and surrounding him with his arms. Still kissing him, Fëanor led his sex into the narrow passage. No matter how long it took Fëanor to prepare him, Fingolfin always tensed at first - his hroa and fëa rejecting the invasion, the position of power of another male on him - and Fëanor loved the fact that he overcame his basic instincts of fighting for give himself completely to him. 

They moved slowly, one to meet the other, their hips’ sinuous dance replicated in the meeting of their tongues. This time, they loved each other slowly - the climax building in the cadence of their bodies, in the fingers that pressed to maintain control, in the maddening brush of their torsos, in the warmth that caught Fingolfin's sex between them, in the rhythmic beats that encircled Fëanor's erection. 

There were words stuck in Fëanor's throat - words of love and eternity, oaths, promises, prayers, offers - and he leaned back to find the air he needed. His breath was stolen by his brother's vision: in Fingolfin's blue eyes he could read the emotions that were knotted in his chest. Snatched up in bliss, he only managed to rest his forehead on the other elf's as liberation unleashed in his mind and body. He sensed the flashes of power like tiny bolts of sapphire and silver dancing on Fingolfin's skin the instant the semen spilled, soaking his bellies. Still with their foreheads together, Fëanor finally let out a ‘half-laugh half-moan’ sound. 

 

His body was still trembling, surrounded by his lover's arms and legs, and their heavy breathing unleashed wet sounds between their torsos. Red and gold power was still tingling in his skin, responding with flashes to the vibrations emitted by Fingolfin's. With his eyes closed, Fëanor tilted his face to rub his cheek against his brother's, with feline tenderness. Satisfaction spilled inside him, refreshing his soul and his body: surprised, he realized that that placid sensation came from Fingolfin. 

He made a move to draw away; but Fingolfin held him by pressing his arms around his shoulders. Obedient, Fëanor stretched out on top of him and rested his head on his brother’s shoulder. Now it was Fingolfin who settled down; but only to bring his lips to his brother's ear and whisper: "Welcome, _tyenya*_." 

Fëanor's shoulders relaxed with a silent laugh when he heard the term in Quenya, with no Sindarin equivalent for the intimacy of its meaning - a word that it was never pronounced in the presence of third parties and very rarely out loud, a word that by itself was almost a promise. And yes, for the first time in more than a year, Fëanor felt that he had really returned home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *My tye, (tye being an intimate form of “you” in quenya). Tye was used as an endearment especially between lovers, and (grand)parents and children also used it to address one another. Up to here, the provisions of Tolkien. The special connotation is mine for the essence of the story: nothing to do with Tolkien's intentions in creating it, I suppose :)


	17. Chapter 17

The servant led Fëanor to a room outside the palace's busiest thoroughfares and with a slight bow, withdrew.

The former Crown Prince of the Noldor gazed at the closed door with a frown and turned on his heels to study the room. In spite of the shortage of furniture, he immediately recognized the living room of Indis, adjacent to the old nursery. In that room now lit only by two standing lamps and whose windows were covered by heavy gray curtains, the royal family had spent hours of rest while the most beautiful she-elf of Valinor drew sketches of all of them illuminated by Laurelin.

Fëanor walked around until he stopped at the white mother-of-pearl door. How many times Nolofinwë and then Lalwen did not burst through that door, shrieking and laughing, diverting the attention of the adults, disrupting the peace of the tea hour. His hand instinctively went to the doorknob - only to find that it was locked. It was to be expected: the nursery had no use since there were no children in the palace. Finrod and Amarië - the youngest couple with the possibility of having children - had declined to live in the royal palace in the first years of marriage.

With a disappointed sigh, he moved away from the door and went to one of the windows. He had asked himself several times why Finarfin had sent him to call the palace. Only once since his reincarnation had he been in the building that once was his home: the High King had made him come to make it clear that he would not tolerate any of his past behaviors. Finarfin had not had the opportunity to use his oratorical skills: as soon as he began his speech, Fingolfin burst into the room unannounced and became Fëanor's guardian, offering his reputation as a guarantee that none of the past misfortunes would be repeated today - including the abandonment of a brother. Fëanor remembered the pallor that covered the cheeks of the King of Tirion and that for a second he had wondered if Fingolfin would not be using _osanwë_ to communicate with his brother in a less civilized tone.

 _"You're like a she-cat that just gave birth,"_ he remembered grumbling when they left the palace.  
_"And you are my kitten,"_ Fingolfin taunted in response.

 _Kitten_ was not a nickname he had accepted in the past; but considering that Fingolfin had the necessary ability to make him purr, Fëanor would be satisfied if he decided to add it to the already crucial _tyenya_.

 **Tyenya.** Fëanor felt his soul shake with pleasure and love as he evoke last night with his brother. As always, once was not enough for them to be satisfied. After more than an hour when they just lay hugged - Fingolfin's hands caressing his back, his cock resting inside his brother, as if they were never going to separate - Indis' son had been the one to suggest that a bath would be nice to get rid of sweat and other details. Fëanor would have protested that he loved being _sweaty and other details_ ; but the tingling on the edges of his fëa denounced the true intentions of his half-brother. He lacked time to get up and run to the bathroom.

The hot water had cleared his mind and relaxed his muscles by the time Fingolfin began to wash him patiently, lathering his torso and thighs with his palms wide open before forcing him to turn his back on him. With all his imagination, Fëanor would never have believed that there was something as delicious as someone else to wash him: seconds were enough for him to lean forward, holding on tight to the marble wall to offer more to the fingers that caressed his entrance. However, Fingolfin did not let him surrender so easily and once again made him turn in spite of his moans of protest. He continued to wash him like a child until Fëanor roared impatiently and grabbed him by the face to kiss him hungrily, moving in the hand that still held his sex. From there, the memories were sensations and cut images: Fingolfin pushing him against the wall, forcing him to raise a leg to facilitate possession; he propelled himself into the hard length that moved further, more to ram the center of his being and steal his breath. And _fire_. In the middle of the water that was still falling on them, live-fire bursting in his soul, claiming his sanity.

 _"I could devour you,"_ he had murmured later, when they were already lying back among the silk sheets, their bodies entwined and their mouths so close that they breathed into each other. _"I want you so much that I do not know what to do with you. I want to kiss you, bite you ... drink your blood, sink me in your body forever and at the same time, have you inside me until I cannot breathe. I could ... "_ He hesitated with the words; but these escaped his control. _"I could go mad for you."_  
_"I know,"_ Fingolfin had said, laughing in that way that with, all certainty, had driven others mad before him. And in his tone there was no mockery or fear; but understanding, acceptance, certainty that he felt that way too.  
Fëanor wondered, once again since he had known about their relationship, how a human had endured being the lover of such a creature without going out of his mind. How Hador had been able to continue forward, stop feeling those lips, stop touching that skin, stop submitting to the pain and glory that Fingolfin gave. How was it possible that he could love, want someone else after having tasted such a delicacy. 

 

“Fëanáro.”

Fëanor emerged from his memories at the soft voice that named him in Quenya. He turned on himself and found himself facing Finwë's youngest son. 

Finarfin wore a traditional Noldorin outfit - made up of so many layers of clothes that Fëanor could never breathe with all those trappings - that is: wide pants tucked into low curved toe boots, silk shirt, velvet waistcoat, another sleeveless vest with long skirts and the wide toga closed on the chest so that the skirt was open around his legs. As if that were not enough, he wore on his shoulders the heavy cloak embroidered with the coat of arms of the Royal House - that is, the star with golden rays that replaced the Finwë emblem.  
A crown of pure gold flashed on his forehead, showing the emeralds in the form of leaves that were the stones of Finarfin's house: it was a jewel made especially for **this** High King, Fëanor recognized. Finwë’s crown had passed to him, then to Maedhros and would surely remain as a trophy in Angband after Fingon's feat. Instead, the crown used by Fingolfin on official occasions (it was well known that, in his daily life, the High King of the Exiles wore a simple tiara with a star of sapphires) had been rescued by Erestor after the Nirnaeth and now slept in a glass urn in the Public Library.  
Fëanor valued the garment a few seconds: it was a good job; but with all certainty it could have been better. It lacked delicacy in the curves and the crimping was somewhat forced. Curufin or Celebrimbor would have done better. Or Elrond’s twin-sons, who were good craftsmen for what he could see. Maeglin would certainly have done a very good job with that piece of gold. Even that Raug - Rog - who Fingolfin had such a high opinion of. It was clear that it was not the work of any Aulendil - not even the clumsy one of Urundil, Mathan's youngest son would have done something so little detailed. And it was not dwarf crafts either.  
Concentrating on the jewel, Fëanor took a few minutes to realize that Finarfin had addressed him with his maternal name and without making use of his princely title. It was not that he cared about the protocol, much less; but Finarfin _did care_. 

“Arafinwë”, he responded with a slight nod. 

The flash in king’s blue eyes was hardly perceptible; though, enough for Fëanor to know that he had bothered him. 

“I am glad you have agreed to come”, began Finarfin. “I was sure not if you would feel comfortable visiting this place.”  
“I do not see why I should feel uncomfortable”, the older elf shrugged. “This place was my home for thousands of years.”  
“As I recall, you did not visited us often.”  
“You are too young, Arafinwë”, means Fëanor, meanwhile remembering all the hours he spent in that same room, with Fingolfin sitting on his knees and Indis scolding Lalwen for pulling Maglor's loops.  
“Am I?” Now it was Finarfin's turn to smile: Fëanor felt his stomach turn to the sleepy expression of those clear eyes. “I have lived almost thirty millennia without interruption. Who is too young here?”  
“You forget that the years of the Eldar are counted by their fëa and not by their hroa, Arafinwë. You will always be too young,” he concluded. 

Finarfin's gaze flashed again. Fëanor frowned slightly: all the sons of Indis were alike; but different. The two daughters had inherited the gray eyes of the Noldor; but while Lalwen had her father's dark hair and golden skin, Findis was blond and pale like the Vanyar. The males, on the other hand, possessed the vanyarin blue-ish eyes: those of Fingolfin had the same cobalt blue of King Ingwë while those of Finarfin were almost like aquamarines. If not for the color of the eyes, Fingolfin would have gone through a pure noldo, unlike his younger brother, who was the living portrait of his maternal grandmother. Together, it was easy to appreciate the similarities between them; but separately, each sibling seemed to come from a different family. 

Above all, Fëanor tried to remember a moment when he felt the same appreciation for Finarfin as for Fingolfin. 

_Nothing._

Finarfin had been a child too soundless, too quiet. He had always looked at his half-brother with fear and when Fëanor argued with Finwë or Findis, Finarfin ran to hide between his mother’s skirts. Even as an adult, Finarfin had never confronted his older brother: when fights between Fingolfin and him reached volcanic temperatures, Indis' youngest son simply retreated into himself and observed them in silence. The few times that Finarfin intervened, it was to try to appease Fingolfin, earning the mockery of one and the severity of the other. 

"Anyway, I sent for you for a matter of vital importance." 

Fëanor forced himself to concentrate on the Finarfin in front of him, ignoring the memories of the shy, effeminate adolescent. 

“I hear you”, he said raising an eyebrow.  
“Something unthinkable has happened. Princess Lóssefindil has been requested in marriage by Tyelperinquar.”

Fëanor did not react to the information. He had definitely understood that his grandson had asked for someone's hand; but - whose? 

“Excuse me - uh - Lóssefindil?”  
“I think you know her as Finduilas, the only daughter of Artaresto.”  
“Ah - I thought she used her Sindarin name.”  
“You above everyone will understand that we do not adopt the dialect of the Moriquendi in the Court of Tirion.”  
“What I understand is that the Sindar and the Avari have a hard time learning our language. It's going to be difficult - Wait! Celebrimbor did what?!”

He was perplexed. Celebrimbor had asked for Finduilas’ hand. His grandson had asked for Finarfin's granddaughter’s hand. At what time had such a thing happened? Why did he not know it? Did Curufin know? Did his other children know? Was not Celebrimbor in a relationship with Gil-galad? What the hell was happening? And why did Finarfin say that something _unthinkable_ had happened? 

“I see that the news surprises you as much as me”, Finarfin conceded, without his tone betraying sympathy. “In that case, I deem it unnecessary to stop to explain the reasons that make such an engagement impossible. For a moment, I contemplated the possibility that you would have encouraged that inclination in your grandson ...”  
“I did not encourage it because I had no idea that it existed”, interrupted Fëanor. “Now, I think you will have to stop to expose the reasons that prevent marriage between them. Does Finduilas oppose?”  
“Lóssefindil is not in a position to comment.”  
“Sorry; but she is the only one in a position to give an opinion. It is the one requested in marriage.”  
“My granddaughter is too young to be aware of ...”  
“Your granddaughter was imprisoned by orcs, Finarfin: she is not too young at all.”

Again the blue eyes of the High King twinkled and Fëanor frowned: Finarfin's skin was too pale for these signs of anger not to blush his cheeks. As if noticing his scrutiny, Finarfin took a few steps towards the veiled windows, away from the light of the lamps. 

“In Valinor we do everything that is on our hands to forget those dark passages in the lives of those we love.”  
“Well, they do not forget it, I assure you. Finduilas has not forgotten it. Is that perhaps why she refuses marriage?”  
“She does not refuse marriage.”

Fëanor opened his mouth and closed it again. Celebrimbor and Finduilas had met in Nargothrond. Curufin's son was a young adult when Orodreth's daughter was born in Tol Sirion so their relationship at the beginning was only that of an adult with a child. After the reproachful actions of his father and uncle, Celebrimbor had chosen to remain in Nargothrond; but life for him had not been simple. Only long after the Nirnaeth, the young artisan had agreed to reunite with his family; but when the attack on Doriath took place, Celebrimbor had once again moved away from his surviving uncles, leaving in search of Círdan and there he met Gil-galad. In all those years, as Fëanor knew, he did not contact Finduilas again. 

On the hand, Fëanor knew the story of the daughter of Orodreth: committed to Gwindor, in love with the human Túrin, captured by orcs, murdered and one of the first to be reincarnated among the Noldor, the princess had led a quite retired life in the Court of Tirion. Fëanor had never seen her personally and had no idea that her grandson had any contact with her. 

“If the girl agrees”, said Míriel's son finally; “why are not we discussing the details of the ceremony?”  
“That wedding is not going to be celebrated.”  
“You just said that she ...”  
“Finduilas doesn’t know what she wants! She's confused - spellbound by your grandchild. The unions between close relatives are prohibited ...”  
“No, they are not. Not since the marriage of Idril and Lomion was approved. And Maedhros and Fingon.”  
“Cursed marriages!”, exclaimed Finarfin, turning in front of him with red eyes of anger. “Perverse unions, against nature, that only demonstrate the decadence of our morals. I will not allow the daughter of my, my own blood, to fall into the darkness that your race takes where it goes.”  
“What are you implying, Arafinwë?” demanded Fëanor, clenching his fists.  
“You!” accused the king. “It’s your blame that our people sink into the mire of shame and betrayal! I thought you would have the decency to share my reluctance to that bond; but it was too much to ask that you have any decency in you! What else could be expected from who abandoned his wife and gave himself up to debauchery with females and males alike, staining the High King's name?”  
“Wait a moment, Arafinwë. Why are we talking about my private life? With whom I went to bed or not, it has nothing to do with the engagement of our grandchildren.”  
“There is no such engagement! Lóssefindil will not marry Sauron's sex slave!”

The slap echoed through the room followed by the tinkling of the crown as it rolled across the paved floor. For a second, Fëanor waited for the guards to burst into the room to seize him and drag him to the Ring of Judgment once again. Only the silence remained between them. 

Finarfin straightened to watch him with blue eyes blazing with rage. Fëanor still felt anger burning in his chest: how dare he? How did this paper-king, that only go to the war backed by the most powerful army in the world, dare to judge? To speak? To despise the suffering of others?

“I could judge you by treason, Fëanáro.”

Fëanor did not deign to respond. Slowly, he closed his fists at the sides of his body. 

“Give me a real reason to deny happiness to those two”, was what he said after a few minutes.  
“Do you think little everything that your House has done??” Finarfin scoffed and finally came forward until the light of the lamps illuminated his face. 

Fëanor understood that his half-brother had his face painted white. The makeup - one of those pastes that the highest-ranking females used to whiten their complexion - had fallen on the cheek when Fëanor hit him and made him look ridiculous. Puzzled, Fëanor realized that Finarfin was trying to imitate the marble appearance of the more conservative Valar: Varda, Irmo, Manwë ...

“ Celebrimbor did not even utter the Oath”, he reminded his half-brother, forcing himself to control his anger for his grandson's sake .  
“Tyelperinquar is another member of your cursed blood, a fruit of the poison that you expand in your path. Everything that you and yours touch is perverted, it rots. I will not let my granddaughter have that destiny. Lóssefindil refuses to speak; but if we see that your grandson put a hand on her, if I discover there was something more between them than the letters we found in his room ...”  
“You cannot do anything. Except access to marriage”, Fëanor half-smiled. “If Finduilas and Celebrimbor had relations could only be with the consent of both and not even the Valar will intervene in that case.”  
“If such misfortune happened, with all certainty your grandson will have used some of the tricks that the slave of Melkor taught him.”  
“Do not repeat that ...”  
“Or the ones you taught him. After all, you and your children are masters in the art of cheating and seducing.”  
“Arafinwë ...”  
“Your eldest son is a sexual deviant who seduced his cousin when he was a child ...”  
“Fingon was more than aware of what he wanted and I am convinced that he had as much participation as Nelyo in that seduction. My son is not a ...”  
“And the other did not hesitate to seduce his own aunt and then leave.”  
“ Arafinwë, you are twisting reality. Cáno ...”  
“The other wallowing with human females.”  
“You cannot talk about Haleth like that. That female deserves all your respect and was the wife of ...”  
“And you!” finally released Finarfin with a grimace of disgust twitching his features.  
“I what?” Fëanor snorted. “Did I sleep with half Tirion? All right! I do not regret ...”  
“Seducing your own brother?”

This time, words got stuck in Fëanor's throat. He knew it? How…? It was not possible. Fear closed his lungs. Fingolfin would never forgive him if he knew someone knew.

“What are you saying?” he blinked, nervous .  
“Did you think I would not notice? Did both of you think I'm stupid?” laughed Finarfin. “I saw what you did all the time. I saw how you entangled him in your filthy webs, how you dragged him into the mud and dishonor. And I was not the only one to notice it, no! _We all saw it_ : how you played with him and turned him into your plaything, your pet. Nolofinwë was perfect, pure, the Valar’s favorite - until you perverted him.”  
“That's not ...”  
“You turned him into a copy of you: superb, jealous, ambitious ... murderer. You dragged him with you until he was only able to follow you.”

Relief poured into Fëanor's chest as he understood Finarfin's mistake.

“Wait”, he said, extending a hand in his direction; “do you think I seduced Nolofinwë when we lived here before? Do you think that's why he went to Endorë?”  
“I know it! I saw the way you looked at each other, touched each other -when my brother was still a child! I saw how you behaved together, like two lovers ...  
“Like brothers, Arafinwë.”  
“Like lovers! You never treated us like did with him. He also didn’t treat us like he did with you.”  
“You cannot understand ...”  
“ Cannot?” he scoffed, with disdain. “ Cannot I understand why you went crazy when you got married? Cannot I understand that Nolofinwë abandoned his wife, the mother of his children, to follow you, his lover?”  
“His king! His brother!” He ran a hand over his face, searching for a patience he did not possess. “What you say is ... intolerable, Arafinwë. Nolvo would be furious if he heard you ... “  
“Nolvo would be furious”, repeated Finarfin, mocking. “Nolvo would be furious? Nolvo would be furious! What does Nolofinwë’s fury matter to me? I am the High King of the Noldor! He is nothing! Nothing more than a tearful boy because his beloved little brother, his lover, left him! And you're just a murderer! A thief! You are a cancer that corrodes everything it touches! You stole the light from the Trees to make your stones. You stole my father, my brother, and now you want to rob my granddaughter. I won’t allow it. Before, I'll see you outside of Aman, back in the Timeless Halls. You and all your perverted offspring! " 

Fëanor was crushed by Finarfin's anger. He almost believe that his half-brother would jump on him to tear him with his nails; but the door to the room opened and on the threshold appeared Angrod and Aegnor.

“Father, we heard screams ...” said Angrod, frowning.  
“Uncle?” asked Aegnor when he saw Fëanor.  
“I think your father needs to rest”, declared Fëanor, turning towards them. “He's ... somewhat upset. Believe me: I know what I'm talking about.”  
“Are you implying that I'm cracked like you?” Finarfin laughed and his children exchanged a tense look.  
“I **say** that you are a bit out of yourself, Arafinwë”, Fëanor replied firmly.  
“But you were never deranged, right?” continued the king. “You knew what you were doing - what you wanted. You wanted all of us subdued to you. But I am stronger than my brother: you do not fool me.”  
“Uncle?” returned to inquire Aegnor, in a murmur. 

Fëanor denied in silence. 

“Don’t talk to him!” shouted Finarfin, grabbing his son by the arm. “He’s a monster and has brought misfortune upon us - over our family and our land too many times. I will not let it happen again ...”  
“Is this because of Finduilas and Celebrimbor?” understood Angrod. “We already talked about that, father. Orodreth agrees and she is more than willing to make a living with him. Both kids have had more than enough pain and deserve ...”  
“Punishment!” Finarfin roared. “Anyone with that cursed blood deserves punishment. He won't touch my granddaughter. He won’t condemn her to death as he condemned his mother. Don’t you get it? He will devour her. He will consume her. He will condemn her to Eternal Darkness. “

Fëanor recoiled at Finarfin’s words. Like his mother? What did Míriel have to do with this story? How had they gone from discussing the deviations of his character to talking about the death of Míriel? And what did Finduilas have to do with her? Nerdanel was not dead. Not even Celebrimbor's mother. Was it that Finarfin had always seen him as the monster that devoured his own mother to live? 

“Father, you don’t know what you're saying”, Aegnor intervened, with little delicacy and with a gesture, he ordered his older brother: “Go find Galadriel.”  
“Yes!” cried Finarfin, exultant. “Artanis - Artanis understands what I say. She knows ... She saw before everyone the darkness in him - No, not before everyone: I already knew what Fëanáro was capable of. I knew - I always knew.”

Angrod left the room at full speed, leaving Aegnor to hold Finarfin, who continued to babble incoherently.

“Sorry, uncle”, the younger elf apologized, turning his attention to Fëanor. 

With an effort, the elder moved away from the wall against which he leaned and shook his head without speaking. 

"My father ..." continued Aegnor, undecided. “He ...”  
“You have nothing to explain”, Fëanor held back. “I'm only interested in knowing how everything turns out between Finduilas and Celebrimbor.”  
“That's going to turn out well, I assure you” his nephew smiled.

“What happened?” A voice demanded and Galadriel burst into the room to run with her father. “What did you do to him?”she demanded between his teeth, turning to Fëanor.

“Nerwen!” scolded Aegnor .  
“But he ...”  
“Nerwen” repeated his other brother.

Fëanor took the opportunity to leave the room and run out of the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Lóssefindil: of the Quenya: lósse: white, finde: braid. A terrible and very own translation of sindarin name Finduilas. Let's see: I could not find an exact translation of Finduilas - only "finde-: hair or braid" and nothing else. However, I found that 'uilos' means 'white, always white'. Since in this story, Finarfin clings to using Quenya, it is natural that he uses the translated name of his granddaughter. Faelivrin, the epessë given to her by Gwindor and which refers to the _brightness of the sun in the waters of Ivrin_ , would have been too far-fetched to translate it, besides that it's not a name of birth.
> 
> ** In the previous chapter I used 'tyenya' for the first time: I love that word - something like 'my you' - and I was eager to use it in some of my stories since I found it in one of the many Quenya vocabularies that I've got find ;)
> 
> *** Finarfin's a seer. LOL


	18. Chapter 18

Nerdanel looked up from the sketchbook she was reviewing and frowned when she saw Fëanor in the middle of the workshop.

The elf took a few more steps to perceive that she saw him and stopped again, as if he were hesitating.

“Fëanáro?” the sculptress called, gently, evoking the occasions when her former husband looked so disoriented in his previous life; especially near the end.

He continued to look at the half-made sculptures as he struck his left thigh with his hand - another gesture of his moments of confusion in the past, Nerdanel acknowledged, alarmed.

“Fëanáro, dear, is something amiss?” she asked cautiously. “Do you want to talk to me?”

Fëanor narrowed his eyes, sensing the suspicion in the feminine tone. A monster. Finarfin had confessed that he always feared him, that he always saw a monster in him, and in the light of that revelation, Fëanor understood the attitude of his younger half-brother for so many years. Finarfin had never sought his company or his affection. Finarfin never confronted him openly. Finarfin always tried to protect Fingolfin. Finarfin turned back, but not before trying to get his full brother-in-blood to reconsider and abandon his obsession to follow Fëanor to the end of the world. Finarfin hated him as much as he feared him.

“Do you think I'm a monster?” He asked suddenly, turning in front of Nerdanel.

Mahtan's daughter took a slow breath. In spite of Fëanor's disoriented expression, his eyes shone with the same wit as before - so close to the madness that consumed him later.

“Why would I believe such a thing?” she asked without showing her concern.

Fëanor clenched his jaw slightly.

“My mother. Everyone said - **say** that I killed her.  
“That's silly. You were a baby coming into the world: how could you have ...?”  
“She left me. She knew what I was - what I was capable of. She told my father not to blame her for what might happen. She - she knew. Everybody knew. There was darkness in me ...”  
“You are the ‘spirit of fire’ “, Nerdanel smiled, evoking an old joke. “How can there be darkness in you, Fëanáro?”  
“Also Morgoth was born as a beautiful and light creature.”  
“Are you comparing yourself to him?” she raised her eyebrows.  
“Many do it. They claim- they claim that I brought more misfortune on our people than the Dark Enemy himself.”  
“And you think so?”  
“Sometimes I do. When -when I see my children. And Tyelpë - Everything they did, what they suffered, was my fault. They should have stayed with you ...”  
“They would never have accepted something like that and you know it. They loved you - they love you too much to leave you alone.”  
“My fault too: I bound them to me in a way that barely allowed them to breathe. And Nolofinwë”, he added lower.  
“What about Nolofinwë?”  
“I also dragged him into my madness. I tied him to my destiny until he could not do anything but follow me.”  
“Nolofinwë would be mad if he heard you denigrate him to a puppet. I do not think there was anyone in Tirion capable of forcing Nolofinwë to do something he did not want to do.”

For the first time, the light in Fëanor's silver eyes softened.

“Do you believe so?”  
“I think your brother made his own decisions at all times. Were some guided by his love for you? Undoubtedly. However, you did not ‘force’ him to anything. Neither our children. Everything they did, they did it out of love.”

Fëanor nodded slightly; but then Finarfin's other words resounded in his head, taking the air from his lungs once more.

“You never -you never saw something weird in our relationship, right?”  
“Weird - like what? “ She was surprised.  
“Weird - like we did not look like brothers.”  
“Well - it was rare that Nolofinwë called you ‘atto’ when he was almost ten years old”, the sculptress half-smiled, remembering. “Maitimo was very confused: he did not know if Nolofinwë was his brother and, if he was, why he did not live with us. Macalaurë was a little jealous actually: you preferred the company of that other child before his. And there were some -malicious rumors.”  
“Rumors?”  
“Well, Indis was almost your age. She was too young for Finwë and his son called you ‘dad’.”  
“That's ridiculous. Indis and I barely managed to treat each other civilly. But I was referring to -Did you never really feel that there was something inappropriate between Nolofinwë and me?”

Nerdanel blinked, confused. Inappropriate? Inappropriate how? Inappropriate as two brothers who sometimes did not seem at all? Nerdanel recalled all the occasions in which they spent the night in the palace and she woke up in the middle of the Telperion hours to find the other half of the bed empty.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

_She still didn’t feel at ease in the palace. Although her father was one of the leaders of the Aulendili, she was not used to all the etiquette and protocol that prevailed in the Noldóran court. In her house, everyone behaved like equals and apprentices were part of the family. After several visits to the Mindon Eldaliéva, Nerdanel still felt like an intruder._

_Fëanáro was transformed by being in his father's house. From the frank and carefree young elf who sat at Mahtan's table, he became a distant prince, with sharp comments and a dismissive gesture. Nerdanel did not like the transformation: it was as if her husband possessed two different personalities and used the one that suited him according to the circumstances. In addition, there was the fact that on more than one occasion she woke up in the palace alone._

_Frowning, she looked again at the side of the bed where Fëanáro slept a few hours before and shook his head._

_There were rumors in Tirion._

_She, like most elves, leaned more toward spiritual growth than toward physical experiences; but Fëanáro had too much energy, too much fire. At times, his insatiability had frightened her. They already had four children and Fëanáro did not stop looking for her in a carnal way._

_There were rumors in Formenos._

_Fëanáro had been an avid and precocious young, always looking for new knowledge, new experiences. Perhaps he had found another place - another bed, another body - in which to release part of his impetus._

_Irritated, she shook her head to ward off the bad thoughts and jumped out of bed. She wrapped herself in the robe that she found hanging next to the bed - and that belonged to her husband - and ventured out of the bedroom._

_While she walked the corridors, the gossip heard in the workshop and in the market returned to haunt her head - comments that nobody dared to repeat aloud, jokes that no one would laugh in the presence of a member of the Court, slander that provoked sour, lascivious smiles. Nerdanel evoked the image of his siblings-in-law: Princess Findis - so blonde, so delicate, so proud -; Prince Nolofinwë - so dark, so lively, so beautiful- so Noldorin - so like Fëanáro._  
_**So similar to Fëanáro**. _

_She slowed and turned the corner. She barely contained the sigh of relief that rose to her lips._

_Queen Indis turned to see who was coming and the surprise shook her exquisite features. In her arms, Nerdanel distinguished little Arafinwë, very still between the blanket embroidered in green and gold; but with eyes wide open._

_“I think you’re lost, Nerdanel “, Indis commented, gently, making sure that her voice did not echo in the silent galleries. “Cannot you sleep?”  
“I'm - I'm looking for my husband, Your Majesty. I think he cannot sleep.”_

_This time, the queen smiled amused and shook her head surrounded by thick braids of the color of pure gold._

_“What inconsiderate of his part”, she commented. “Is it the first time he leaves you sleeping alone?”_  
_“N-no. Whenever we stay here he usually - at least once in each visit he- I'm sorry, ma'am, I did not want to bother”, she apologized, embarrassed. What kind of female admitted that her husband left his bed?_  
_“Don’t worry. Ingoldo isn’t noisy; but sleep little and that keeps me awake. I cannot go to rest unless he falls asleep. At least he doesn’t scandalize like Arakáno or Lalwendë. Speaking of which, did you look for him in Arakano's room?”_  
_“ For whom?”_  
_“Your husband, my dear. He's probably there now.” The Queen nodded, still rocking the baby. “And all the times you've missed him in your bed.”_  
_“With - Nolofinwë? But it's - it's ...”_  
_“Telperion? They used to sleep together when Arakáno was smaller and it seems that they haven’t gotten rid of the habit. Do you want to go see? To calm your doubts.”  
“I have no doubt to calm down”, replied Nerdanel, standing proud. _

_Indis raised her eyebrows._

_"How lucky. I have them all the time. When I wake up and cannot find Nólemë by my side, I always think he’s in Lorien. Usually I learn later that he had to attend to some urgent government matter or that Curufinwë arrived in the middle of the Telperion hours; but my first thoughts are never flattering, I assure you. Then rest. There is still a long way to go for Telperion to dwindle. And Ingoldo doesn’t seem to intend to sleep soon,” she concluded with a sigh before resuming her walks on the terrace._

_Mahtan's daughter watched her walk away singing in a low voice and turned to go back to the room._

_Upon reaching the corridor that led to the wing of the palace occupied by Fëanáro from his childhood, the young girl's gaze was diverted to the marble staircase and blue glass. The staircase led to the turret in which Nolofinwë's apartments were located since he entered adolescence: Indis had insisted that his son should have rooms independent of those of his sisters._

_Despite his proud words to the Queen, Nerdanel found himself halfway up the ladder before she reflected on his actions. Only when she was in front of the door did she think carefully about what she was doing. What would Fëanáro think if he discovered her there? And if Fëanáro was not there, what would she do?_

_Fighting against the tremor in her hands, Nerdanel turned the handle. The door gave way without noise and Nerdanel stepped inside the chamber. She found herself in a living room, furnished with a set of low chairs and a small table for tea - probably Indis's insistence. On one wall was a map of Arda: Aman appeared detailed, but the east of the plane only showed sketches of the Forgotten Lands. Before the window was one of Rúmil's inventions: an eye tube to see in the distance and next to it, one of the seer stones of Fëanáro. A lute was on top of one of the seats and on both the table and the floor there were scattered sheets of diagrams and notes in a tight script that Nerdanel had only seen in the letters Fëanáro received._

_For a moment, Nerdanel regretted invading the shrine of the young prince. No matter what her fears were, she could not peep into a teenager's bedroom. She was about to turn around, repentant, when a murmur came to her. Frowning, she crossed the room and leaned out the door as someone whispered a lullaby in a low voice._

_“Don't shut me up and leave aside, Curufinwë”, Nolofinwë grumbled, irritated. “You're going to pull me out of bed!”_  
_“Why do you complain so much, little boy? And you're not going to fall off the bed.”  
“That's what you said the last time and I ended up with my buttocks on the floor. Move, Curvo! No! Not on top of me, idiot! Curufinwë, we're going to fall!”_

_A dull thud came to Nerdanel, who had retreated to the center of the room._

_“I told you!”_

_The silence followed and then a burst of male laughter. Nerdanel sneaked out of the tower, fearing that the two elves would decide to come out._

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Nerdanel bit her lower lip at the thought that Fëanor had never laughed so carelessly with her - not even in the first years of their marriage. 

“My brothers and I were pretty close in my teens”, she said softly. “Later, many things changed between us; but - I remember we slept together often. Urundil and Angaher know things about me that my mother ignores. You- I think Nolofinwë was a lot of things for you. And I can find many adjectives to describe the relationship between you; but ‘inappropriate’ is not one of them.”

She watched him more closely and finally approached him until she was one step away from him. 

“What's wrong, Fëanáro? You know you can tell me anything. You know you can count on me.”

Could he? Doubt clenched Fëanor's throat. Yes, Nerdanel had not seen anything inappropriate in his relationship with Fingolfin millennia ago; but what now? She, like everyone else, continued to refer to them as "brothers". He himself still referred to Fingolfin as his brother! But he was much more than that. He was much more than the child he taught to draw, than the teenager who kicked him impatiently when he pushed him to the edge of the bed, than the young who turned a jug of wine over his head for dulling his birthday gift to Finwë, than the rabid adult who threw the silver rings to his face after he made fun of his arranged engagement ... 

_"... you went crazy when he got married ..."_

Finarfin was right. Fingolfin's engagement with Anairë had aroused in him a rage and pain so great that Fëanáro had fled the palace for days. 

_It was for political reasons._

He repeated to himself the same excuse he used before, in Valinor’s Noontide. Anairë Surioniel was the daughter of one of the most influential Councilors in the Noldorin political scene, one of the supporters of the Three Clans being subordinated to the authority of Ingwë Ingweron and the wedding of his only daughter with the second Grand Prince of Tirion was a purely political play. Only that Fëanor did not know whose play was: Finwë ... or his foxy little brother. Since Fingolfin's coming of age, the Crown Prince had seen him in action more than once: Fingolfin had a natural talent for politics, a unique ability to win supporters and turn the tide in his favor. Fëanor's initial reaction was to reproach his father for using his son as a political pawn; but seeing that Fingolfin comfortably accepted the marriage, the idea that this was **his** move and not Finwë's, settled in the firstborn’s mind. 

_“Do you love her?”_ He had demanded of Fingolfin in one of his last conversations as brothers.  
_“I will learn to do it”_ , the youngest shrugged, dismissing his worries.  
_“You will be united to her for all eternity. She will be the mother of your children. Do not you worry that you will never love her?”_  
_“Love is not everything, Curufinwë. And it is not indispensable for celebrating a marriage. The Law of Eru says: 'by love or by free will'.”_  
_“And do you go to this union by free will ?”_ , he mocked.  
Fingolfin had watched him in silence ... until the mocking smile faltered on Fëanor's lips.  
_“I do.”_

And Fëanor knew that Fingolfin knew exactly what he would get from that union. It was at that moment that he saw his little brother as a competitor, as a rival, as someone who could dispute his place among the Noldor. Why had not he noticed before that Fingolfin would not be content with being second? However, Fingolfin never challenged him: even when they commanded opposing factions in the Council, his younger brother asked him again and again _'Let's work together, Curufinwë. Imagine what you and I would be able to do together! '_ But he could not think more than the fact that Fingolfin had chosen that beautiful and adorable female over him. Fingolfin had fathered his own children, formed a family for himself, had gathered friends and followers around him, had made a career in politics and diplomacy, far from the forge and workshop. There were no longer escapes to the Kemendili festivities or borrowing boats to see the stars, or hunting in the forests of Oromë ... Fingolfin was not **his** alone anymore: he had betrayed him. 

 

"Fëanáro?" 

He looked up at the voice that called him and was startled when a small hand rested on his shoulder. 

Nerdanel watched him tenderly and moved her hand to caress his cheek, gently. 

The artisan's fingers were calloused, marked by the use of tools. Unconsciously, Fëanor closed his fists, feeling the soft, new skin not yet hardened by the work and his mind evoked the touch of Fingolfin on his skin: the callosities on Fingolfin's palms were different from Nerdanel's. While she showed the traces of her work, the hands of his half-brother were those of a warrior, a soldier. Fëanor knew that Fingolfin was still training with the sword and the spear, which had perfected the two-sword fighting style of the Sindar, which he rowed often and he had more than once considered joining him - if only for the pleasure of seeing him in action. 

Absorbed in the memories, Fëanor reclined his face in Nerdanel's caress and let out a sigh. 

"Many things are changing in me, Istarwen," he whispered, covering her hand with his. “In this year I have learned more about myself and my family than in all the previous millennia - and I do not know how to deal with all this new knowledge.”  
“Be patient”, she smiled, turning her hand in his to shake it tenderly. “I know patience is not one of your virtues; but it is what you need to learn now.”  
“But it's not just about me, dear. My decisions - past and future, influence the lives of others. Others whom I love deeply.”  
“Fëanáro, you know that you are loved as deeply as you love, right?”  
“That- scares me even more. You said that they had acted before for love. And now? Will they not commit the stupidity of following me, please me ... just for that love? "

Nerdanel watched him, intrigued. It seemed that Fëanor was preparing for a second rebellion of the Noldor. 

"By Nienna’s tears, Fëanáro, speak to me clearly," she begged impatiently. He denied, shaking his head.  
“Not yet. It is not time for - to show everyone what I carry in my heart.” He bit his lower lip. “Maybe it's never time.” He raised his free hand and set a red curl behind Nerdanel's ear. “Be quiet: I will not make the same mistakes of my first life.”

That was what scared her the most! She could deal with the problemss he already knew; but Nerdanel did not know what to do with this introverted Fëanor, full of secrets and uncertainties. She told herself that she must talk to Fingolfin; but the twins had told her that their uncle was in Alqualondë and there he would be for several weeks. 

“Please, Fëanáro - talk to me. You used to listen to my advice - before we were good friends -“ She interrupted his babbling, embarrassed.  
“Nerdanel!” he said, laughing with apparent carelessness. “Stop being so - serious. You and I will always be good friends: I do not want a better friend than you. I know I have not asked for forgiveness enough times for how I treated you, for all the suffering I caused you - but that does not stop me from being aware of how much you are worth, of the wonderful person you are and how fortunate I was to have you as a wife and companion. I will never tire of thanking Eru for having put you in my way and having granted me that you were the mother of my children. I promise you, when the time is right, you will be the first one with whom I will share my happiness. Now, I apologize that once again I have burst into your life to charge you with my problems. I must go home: I have - I have some issues to resolve.”

Nerdanel lowered his eyelids and rose slightly on the balls of his feet when Fëanor bent to kiss her forehead. When he was gone, the she-elf still squeezed the hand that he held against her breast and silently, prayed to Varda so that this time they both would find peace and happiness. **Together.**


	19. Chapter 19

Moonlight bathed the garden, making the drops of dew shine on leaves and flowers. Three lanes met in a small clearing whose center was occupied by a marble and nacre fountain. A statue of Uinen poured water from the amphora that rose above her head and water lilies floated in the pot.

Fingolfin frowned as he noticed that the maia had been depicted in the style of Avarin legends: from the waist up she had an Elvish appearance as she stood on numerous tentacles instead of legs. It was not the first time that the once High King saw zoomorphic representations of the most important Maiar: Ossë, for example, used to wear a shark tail and a triangular fin in the middle of his back; Eonwë, eagle wings; Aiwendil, rabbit ears or deer antlers; Olórin, white crow feathers; Ilmarë, dragonfly wings ... and many more. The Valar also did not escape those mixed representations: Nessa with leopard skin was one of the favorites; Oromë with a proud antlers; Yavanna with branches instead of hair; Vána transforming from jasmine to her almost Elvish image; Estë with three pairs of butterfly wings; Vairë with six pairs of arms that allowed her to weave her endless tapestries ... The arrival of the Avari and the Sindar had disrupted many of the popular traditions in Valinor.

Fingolfin remembered his surprise the first time he saw an image of Námo wearing a black armor and made up with Avari war paintings. The little Avarin guide had translated the words of the tribe's shaman, telling him the stories of a time when all the Valar were warriors and scoured the earth hunting the Dark Enemy’s creatures.

“Do you like my garden? Surely you don’t have one like that in your hideaway.”

Fingolfin moved away from the balcony and turned in front of Anairë. His ex-wife wore a suit of wide shirt and pants made with a fabric with wave motifs. She was barefoot and the numerous braids in which she divided her black hair descended to her waist, sealed with blue pearls.

“Your fountain, in fact”, he corrected, half sitting on the railing.  
“Ah”, she was disappointed and with a gesture of annoyance, went to the credence to serve two glasses with liquor. “That grotesque is from Eärwen. It was given to her by one of her forest cousins.”  
“ One of her forest cousins?”  
“Galadan - Galahad -Galathan ...”  
“ Galadhon?” raised an eyebrow Fingolfin.  
“That’s it! How do you do to learn all those similar names? For me they are all Something-ion and Something-iel.”  
“Eh ... Thranduil.”  
“Oropherion.”  
“Légolas.”  
“Thranduilion.”  
“ Arwen.”  
“Elrondiel.”  
“Elladan.”  
“Elrondion. Wait, is that the one who tilts his head on his right shoulder when he's holding his laughter?”  
“That's Elrohir. However; Galadhon is Galadriel's father-in-law, so ...”  
“I should know how to differentiate him from others, right? We're almost family. " She grimaced and indicated the glass she left on the table for him. “Now it turns out that I have more family than I can remember.”  
"You asked for it," Fingolfin reminded her, taking the glass and going to sit in the easy chair in front of her.

Anairë stuck out her tongue and bent her legs under his body.

“Says who lives eighty meters from the largest number of brothers in Elven history.”  
“Touché”, he nodded. “So, is the fountain a personal gift?”  
“Actually it was supposed to be a kind of- gift of reunion; but Eärwen is in love with that thing ...”  
“So she put it in your garden. I like it.”  
“Oh! You and she have the same bad taste.”  
“If you say so”, Fingolfin shrugged.  
“Clown!” Anairë yelled and pulled a cushion from behind her back, she threw it at him.

Fingolfin caught the cushion on the fly and settled it under his head.

“Thank you very much.”

Anairë stuck out her tongue again and they both laughed.

“ Where is Eärwen, anyway?” the prince asked after a moment.  
“Attending an embassy of her uncle.”  
“Oh heavens.”  
“Yep. Well, it's not that bad: I think Lord Beleg is in front.”  
“Beleg Cuthálion? Nice guy. Lucky her.”  
“I met him a while ago. He’s nice. Much more than the stretched ones that Greymantle usually send.”  
“He and Mablung are the best you'll find in that court. And Daeron, but the bard no longer meddles in official affairs.”  
“Neither do you and you seem to be aware of everything”, she raised an eyebrow.  
“ It’s impossible not to listen to the comments. Especially when your children work in the city. Have you talked to Turgon?”  
“About? Last time we saw each other, he told me that he had thought that ten thousand years would serve to correct my behavior. I didn’t give him a slap because he’s too tall.”  
“He's just as critical with me.”  
“He’s like my father”, recognized Anairë. “We should just stay with Fingon. Many less problems.”  
“We wouldn’t have Idril and Lómion now.”  
“ You're right. Besides, Aredhel is not so bad.”  
“She pulled out Lalwen's character.”  
“Well, in all the brothers there must be a mad one.”  
“I thought Fingon was our children's.”  
“ Nope. Finno is the adorable one.”  
“Maedhros has same opinion.”  
“Clever boy. He was always my favorite.”  
“I thought your favorite was Caranthir.”  
“Oh, the kitten! Do you remember how he sulked every time I said him 'kitty'?”  
“He was more like a wildcat.”  
“A beautiful wild kitten. Fëanor lost patience every time the poor boy closed himself in and refused to speak.”  
“He lost patience often and for many things. And Caranthir refused to talk very often.”  
“Is he still living in your house?”  
“It's more like everyone comes and goes between one house and another. At any time of the day or night.”  
“Also the father?”

“What father?” Fingolfin frowned, becoming unaware.  
“Theirs”, Anairë made a face, making it clear that he was not deceiving her.” Your half-brother Your torment. Your peace.”  
“With leaving it in 'half-brother' was enough. I only have one of those.” He took a drink and looked at the glass. “What’s this made of??”  
“Rice. I think in Middle Earth they call it saki ... or saka ... or something like that. Blue Wizards brought it along with many other things. So, what is he now?”  
“Who?”  
“Fëanor. Your peace? Or your torment?”  
“My brother.”  
“Your torment then”, she made a gesture of understanding.  
“Fëanor and I have great relationships now, Anairë.”  
“I'm sure you do. Now, is it the kind of relationship you want to have?”  
“I don’t understand what you're asking me, dear.”

Anairë pouted. She had lived too many years with Fingolfin not to know that attitude of 'ice king'. Already in the bliss of Aman, Fingolfin had assumed that pose when something - or someone - bothered him; but now it had only been accentuated. She had not crossed the Helcaraxë; but she had heard enough anecdotes about the distant and proud character of the one who once was her husband. Many of the Sindar who lived under his protection in Hithlum used to tell legends that gave him control of the seasons as a god. He was not the only one with supposed divine powers, naturally: of the Fëanorion, it was said that they carried the shadow and misfortune where they went, but that victory was also on their side; of Fingon, it was said that his laughter could heal any damage and that those who carried a grief only had to listen to the Grand Prince sing for their heart to be relieved - too bad that after the Dagor Bragollach he didn’t do it again -; Turgon, according to some, could unleash the mist over the earth to make invisible those he wanted to protect - perhaps because of Gondolin was a hidden city. It was amazing how easily superstitions grew. 

“Maybe not”, she sighed, shrugging. “After all, you've always been a little slow for those things.”  
“How do you say?”  
“Slow, Arakáno: don’t you know what it means? Don’t tell me that from talking so much in Sindarin you forgot your native language? "  
"I have not forgotten, Haldatári, " he replied in perfect Quenya, taking the trouble to pronounce it like academics. “But I do not understand what you mean by these meaningless questions.”  
“I mean that it’s evident that the relationship between you two has moved to a different level or it’s about to do it. And I'm not the only one who has noticed. Lalwen wrote me a week ago ... “  
“I'm going to kill her”, barked Fingolfin, jumping to his feet.  
“ ’Cause she worries about you? Don’t be an idiot, Fingolfin, " she grumbled, returning to Sindarin fluently. “Lalwen loves you too much to see that you are suffering and not to take matters into her own hands. Besides, Fingon too ... “  
“He too?” Fingolfin roared, opening his eyes wide. “Did they agree to snoop into my life and conspire behind my back? It was because of those letters that you invited me to spend so much time here, right?”  
“Lalwen and I considered that it was better if you went away to think”, admitted Anairë, without a trace of guilt. “Near Fëanor, your brain doesn’t work at full capacity. It has never done it ...”  
“I am not a fucking teenager to be manipulated, Haldatári! And Lalwendë knows I've made my decision!”  
“Did you? So, why are you here instead of with him?”  
“ ‘Cause not…!” He stopped, breathing hard and with a helpless roar, turned on his heels as he rubbed his face roughly with both hands. “Why can you talk about this so calmly? Why aren’t you horrified? Why don’t you shout that I'm sick, that this isn’t possible, that what I feel is ... disgusting? Why don’t you feel disgusted by me, Anairë? "

At the sound of her name, the female jumped out of the seat and went to him. She stood in front of him and grabbed his wrists to force him to uncover his face. 

“Disgusted, Nolvo?” she asked, softly. “Disgusted from you? _My best friend? My partner for so many years? The father of the children that I adore? Disgust of the only one who allowed me be myself? The only one who was not ashamed of me?_ Do you know what anyone else would have done in your place when we got married? Another would have returned me to my father's house, disgraced. Another would have left me no other way than to become a Daughter of Varda. You don’t disgust me. You never rejected me or abandoned me. Not when you found out I wasn’t _pure_ even when I confessed my feelings for Eärwen. Who else if you were by my side when my father accused me of being a deviant? I’d never be ashamed of you, Nolvo. You, who are the best father in the world. How many in your place would have supported his first-born when he announced that he would never take a wife, that if it was a question of choosing, he chose to lie with elves of his same gender? How many would have openly supported his sister so that she had the same rights as you? How could I be repulsed by a male of such value? You were - _you are_ \- the best husband, the best friend, the best father ... the best lover”, she pointed with a smile; “that I could have dreamed. And I’ll always support you. Whatever path you take.”

Fingolfin felt that he should thank her, tell her that this was the most valuable thing he had heard in a long time; but instead, only a desperate moan escaped his white lips. 

"He's my brother, Anairë! **My brother** , do you understand? And no -I cannot separate one feeling from the other. I want him. I still love him like before, like when we were young and it seemed that no throne would rise between us -And at the same time, I - at the same time I just think about his kisses, his body, his hands on me - and I turn crazy. When I'm near him I want to touch him, feel him - I want to smell him and taste him until I’m not able to distinguish another aroma, another flavor. I want to surfeit myself with him and yet, never stop. And then I remember - I remember we were fathered by the same father, that once we - once I called him 'dad', for Eru's sake! It’s as twisted as if tomorrow Fingon or Turgon turned to me with those desires”, he concluded with a grimace twitching his beautiful features.

“That is a disgusting image”, declared Anairë, with a grimace. “And for that many people would pay to see. And for reading”, she added with bright eyes. “I'm going to use it in my next novel.”  
“Anairë!” whimpered Fingolfin.  
“Sorry, dear”, she apologized, taking his hand between hers. “I'm not making fun of this situation; but I despair - you desperate me, Nolvo.”  
“That's nothing new”, he shrugged.  
“No, it's not. You know? I understood your- interest in maintaining peace among our people and I supported you with all my heart; but I also thought - and I still think - that everything would have been much simpler if you had taken power from the beginning. If instead of playing political chess with Fëanor, you would have used your power, your strength -everything would have been different.”  
“Probably worse.”  
“Probably better”, replied Anairë. “Your brother was not born to be king. Nor was Finarfin born for that and- Don’t get me wrong, Nolvo. I admired your father very much; but between being Fëanor’s father or High King, he chose the first and did not even do it well! He was a lousy father to all of you and everyone knew it. There were rumors, Nolvo. People were dissatisfied with Finwë’s government and from his children, you were the one who had more followers. You’d have been High King with little opposition.”  
“Anairë, it was not that simple. Any claim on the crown to impersonate my father would have generated a civil war.”  
“Nolvo, _there was a civil war._ There were squabbles in the streets between Fëanor's supporters and yours. There were groups that tried to eliminate the figure of the Noldóran. After the incident in the square between Fëanor and you, everything got worse. You were so focused on your personal struggle that you did not see what you were doing to our people. I love you, Nolvo. Together with Eärwen, you’re the person who most possesses from my heart; but there are times when I could break your head to see what you have inside.”

“Seriously? How do we get to this extreme?” raised an eyebrow Fingolfin; but immediately sighed. “Maybe that would be a good idea.”  
“Break your head? Don’t tempt me. Case is, Nolofinwë, that I have always understood your attitudes towards life; but I don’t always agree with you. I know why you didn’t claim the title of High King while you were regent of Tirion. I know why you followed your brother despite -everything. I know why you allowed Finarfin to keep the title when many went to ask you to take the government of the Noldor ...”  
“That was never made public, Anairë”, he frowned. “How ...? “  
“Some of them looked for Eärwen. They wanted to know if the fact that a participant of the Battle of Alqualondë was High King would damage the relations between both nations.”  
“Did they dare so much?”  
“They dared - and had a good reception. Both Olwë and the current sovereign were agreeing to do everything possible to maintain good relations with your Court.”  
“That - is treason, Anairë.”  
“That - is reason, Nolofinwë. Your brother is a good elf. I have nothing against him.” Seeing him frown, she shook her head. “I'm not jealous of him, Fingolfin. I never was. Eärwen was less fortunate than I in her marriage: she didn’t even come to respect her husband as I was able to respect and admire you. No, I'm not jealous of him. That's why I say with all certainty that your brother is a good elf; but a bad king. He’s too soft and many take advantage of his good character to use it to their advantage. You know? History books affirm that the noblest, the best of the Noldor returned to Valinor repentant of their performance. Truth? Best of us went to Middle Earth. Here stood the cowards, the weakest, the ambitious ... people who saw that they had an opportunity when you and Fëanor were not there. No one believed that Finarfin would return and many accepted his mandate only because Manwë sanctioned it. In all these years, I’ve seen how my people degenerated: from avid researchers and great artists we have become a band of merchants and prestidigitators. Those who retain some shame have isolated themselves from this society: Mahtan doesn’t abandon his lands and Rúmil has retired to the skirts of Taniquetil with Indis. So yes, many agreed that you and only you could return the glory to our people. No king can be equal. No hero can stand by your side. I would be proud to call you "my king".”

Fingolfin stepped back, trying to free his hand; but she held it firmly. Anairë's gray eyes blazed with an inner fire that made him turn his face, embarrassed. 

“I hope that’s not a declaration of love”, intervened a female voice. 

Both Noldor turned to discover Eärwen leaning on the door jamb. 

“What if it was?” raised an eyebrow Anairë .  
“Well, I would have to challenge Nolvo to duel so you better retract.”  
“Don’t worry, _Ciriatári_ “, Fingolfin intervened, releasing his hand from his ex-wife at last. “I'm not interested in Anairë in a romantic way.”  
“Seriously?” The telerin Queen frowned. “And why? Is not she beautiful enough for you? Do you imply that my mate is not worthy of you, proud Noldo? "

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue.

"One never gets along with you, eh?” He grumbled, with annoyance. “Your mate’s the most beautiful female I have ever met, worthy to sit on the highest throne - and that’s why she is next to who deserves her: you, stunning Eärwen de los Teleri.”

Eärwen pouted and entered the room as she said, disappointed: 

“My father was right: I should have married you and not Ingoldo.”  
“I was married when you were old enough to think of a husband.”  
“Too well married: I don’t know which of the two I envied most for a lot of years. So, if it was not a declaration of love, was Haldatári offering you the position of Noldóran?” the Queen asked, pouring herself a glass of wine before approaching them. 

Anairë bent slightly to receive the kiss on the lips and then said with ease: 

“That was it. More or less.”  
“And I accused her of conspiring against the legitimate High King of Tirion.”

Eärwen drank slowly and then raised his turquoise eyes to his brother-in-law.

“You and I have to talk, Nolofinwë”, she declared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Ciriatári: (q) ciria: sailor; tári: queen. Adapted from Ciriáran: Sailor-king, Olwë's title.
> 
> **Aiwendil: quenya name of Radagast. / Olórin: quenya name of Gandalf. / Ilmarë: one of Varda's maiar. / Uinen and Ossë: sea-maiar, couple, Ulmo's servers. 
> 
> **Galadhon: son of Elmo - little brother of Elwë and Olwë- and father of Celeborn and Galathil, according with "Unfinished Tales of Númenor", by J.R.R. Tolkien.


	20. Chapter 20

Fingolfin continued with his eyes fixed on the garden. Behind him, Eärwen and Anairë were sitting at the table, staring at him. Above the round table and in front of Fingolfin's chair was a letter spread out.

The Finwion looked out without seeing it. His blue eyes gleamed in the pallor of his face and his mouth tightened in a thin line. With his arms crossed, he struggled to control the tension in his body.

“Nolvo ...” Anairë ventured, after a moment.  
“Are you saying that my brother locked Finduilas in her room?” Fingolfin asked, ignoring her.  
“You read it yourself” , nodded Eärwen. “It's not - It's not the first time something like that has happened, Fingolfin. Several of his decrees have caused discontent in the population.”  
“Laws always bother someone. It’s impossible to govern and please everyone. It’s the King’s duty to seek the welfare of the majority and to grant some palliatives to minorities. Especially if those minorities are the most well-off.”  
“The discontented are the majority, Fingolfin. Listen to us, please. Ingoldo isn’t well. At the beginning I thought he was being influenced by his counselors. Súrion and Isilendil are powerful and have many - followers. In addition, the fact that the Noldor turned to the Valar after everything that had happened seemed natural. Many of the measures that Ingoldo took to protect what was left of his people were- radicals; but logical. The Noldor weren’t well seen by my people or the Vanyar. Ingwë was furious and my father worse; but relationships have improved. The millennia have passed and your brother continues to maintain the policies of fifteen millennia ago. He recently banned the use of Sindarin in the public centers of Tirion.”  
“How did you say? 70 % of the reincarnates speak Sindarin and more than half of our people are married or united in some way with sindar and laegil. Sindarin is more popular than Quenya among the Noldor.”  
“It's much simpler to learn too. But not only that: Ingoldo has decreed that only High Quenya would be employed in official negotiations. Thingol is furious. Ingwion is offended and I - I better not say anything. _High Quenya, Fingolfin!_ Possibly only the Fëanorion and some of their followers are able to speak such a thing. For a time, after your departure, the possibility of prohibiting the use of the _Tengwar_ came to be handled because they were created by Fëanor! There are people who have not even used the _sarati_ in their life! Rúmil was the first to protest: although his alphabet received priority, his interest was that people learn and _tengwar_ were easier for everyone.”  
“And it doesn’t stop there, Nolvo. It’s true that it was necessary to take action after you left –“  
“What kind of action, Anairë?”  
“Well - taxes, fees -It was established that a fee must be paid to study at the Academies.”  
“What?!”  
“We understood then. Nine-tenths of our people had left and took much of their possessions with them. The Crown, to begin with, was bankrupt. Our craftsmen, teachers, producers -were not there. We needed to do something- and it was done! But we are no longer in that situation and it’s still mandatory to pay to access knowledge.”  
“I can’t believe Arvo is committing such an injustice. Knowledge belongs to everyone equally.”  
“He doesn’t see it that way. He considers that one of the reasons why everything happened was due to the fact that knowledge was available to - **undue people**.”  
“By undue people he refers to Curufinwë, right?” Fingolfin demanded with eyes blazing with anger. “Has he gone crazy? Who put such ideas in his head? Manwë? Varda?”  
“Nolvo, watch your tongue.”  
“Watch my tongue, Anairë? You know I never worshiped the Valar; however, my brother is faithful to them to the point of worshiping them as if they were Ilúvatar in person. Not all; but many of the Valar tried to control us and restrict our freedom of thought. Finarfin is not malicious enough to come to such a segregationist conclusion on his own, so someone sowed germs in his mind.”

Anairë and Eärwen observed each other in silence. It was the Telerin Queen who spoke again.

“Fingolfin, your brother has always hated Fëanor. Even when we were much younger, before - before a reconciliation between you and Fëanor was impossible, he -Finarfin said that - he claimed that Fëanor had perverted you, that he had poisoned your mind and your soul, that you - that you were obsessed with Fëanor, with obtaining his approval and - his love.”  
“And it's true”, shrugged Fingolfin. “I needed Curufinwë's approval and affection in an insane manner. That he loved me and valued me would be proof that I was worth something. But those are things of children, disoriented adolescents ...”  
“No, Fingolfin. Finarfin firmly believe that you were lovers.” At Fingolfin's expression of shock, Eärwen continued, with a sure tone: “Only once did he tell me. It was after the sword incident and at that moment I thought he was scared, nervous; but then - then I realized that he really believed what he was saying. When I questioned him, claiming that his suspicions were an insult to you, he said - he said he had seen you both. More than once.”  
“Lies!” Roared Fingolfin, leaping forward, fists clenched. “Curufinwë and I never - never - in the past we did not - Oh Mandos, he saw the future!” He understood while collapsing in a chair. 

Eärwen frowned and turned to look at Anairë, who only pouted and shrugged. 

“By Ossë’s balls!” cursed the teler . “Did you have to fall in love with that asshole? We won’have family parties again. And definitely the Noldor will not accept you as High King with him as consort.”

A heavy silence followed her complaints. Fingolfin came out of his shock to look at her with an icy expression. Anairë stirred uneasily in her seat. 

"We're not planning a coup d'etat, Nolvo; don’t look at us that way.”  
“I will not depose my brother just because he does not agree with my choice of mate. And I will not occupy the throne ever again, Eärwen.”  
“I'm not telling you to do it because he's against your relationship with - **the idiot**. I say that Finarfin cannot remain Noldóran because his ability to discern the reality of his visions is affected. You read it, Fingolfin! Look what he did to our granddaughter because she’s in love with Celebrimbor. My children don’t know how to control him ...”  
“ **Help** him. What we should do is **help** him. Also, in case Finarfin should abdicate, the crown would pass to Finrod, his rightful heir.”  
“Findaráto has declared that he’ll never occupy the throne. Of his brothers, only Artaresto reigned for a time and he himself recognizes that he wasn’t the best ruler in the world. Nerwen is out of the question: she spends too much time between her husband's people for the Noldor to accept her as their sovereign. In addition, the reincarnates don’t forget that in Beleriand she also left his people, joining the court of Thingol and Melian. My children will give you their support when you become High King.”  
“I thought you wanted me to be your adviser here in Alqualondë.”  
“That was before receiving this letter from Aikanáro. The situation has worsened more than we ever anticipated. Fingolfin, I'm asking you in the name of my children and your own people, in the name of the coexistence we have achieved after so much pain: when the time comes, take the crown and lead the Noldor once more.”

Fingolfin closed his eyes tightly. He ran a hand through his hair. He was never going to rest. No matter how many times he reincarnated, how many lives he had to live - he would never be free. He hadn’t been free in Tirion. He hadn’t been free in Barad Eithel. He wouldn’t be free in Valinor again.

 _Curufinwë._

_Fëanáro._

His half-brother’s name, his lover’s name, left a furrow of fire and despair in his soul. Before him only two roads were opened: to serve the Noldor once more - or Fëanor. He could not take both. Eärwen was right: his people would not trust him if they saw him united with the elf they most detested. Fëanor would never forgive him if he once again abandoned him. For the crown! He did not want the fucking crown! Yes, he had once wanted it, but today the Noldor’s throne was worth _nothing_ compared to Fëanor's love.  
With anguish, he thought of the sketch of the bracelets he made during the trip -bracelets that he probably would not have the chance to give to his mate. 

He stood up, with effort and went to the window again. Resting his forehead on the glass, he remembered that last night with Fëanor. He remembered each caress, each kiss, each word -He remembered the feeling of being possessed by him, of possessing him until there was no air between their bodies and their souls touched, merging into one. 

_We will not hide_ , he had said proudly, certain that Fëanor would recoil from the obligation to recognize him as his equal before others. 

_Our relationship will not be a shameful secret to hide._

How could he be the one to stand before Fëanor and tell him that if he wanted to be by his side they had to pretend? To hide? To wait for the night to show their love? In the impossible case that Fëanor accepted such a thing, how long would it be before he got fed up? Fëanor was many things; but not a liar. That was one of his problems: he said and did what he thought without taking care of the consequences. Fëanor would not support a hidden relationship. Fëanor would not accept it.

“Regent”, he finally said.  
“What ...?” Anairë asked, surprised.  
“If it became imperative to replace Finarfin, I will accede to be the regent of the Noldor”, he turned around to observe them, calmly. “For a year. When the year is completed, one of your children will assume the government and leave me alone.”  
“It seems fair”, Eärwen accepted, nodding.  
“Now, I want you both to promise that you will not force it.”  
“What do you mean ...”  
“There will be no revolution against my brother and nobody will intervene to force his situation. You’ll let life run its course and that circumstances will force Finarfin to abdicate.”  
“You want to buy time”, reproached Eärwen. “You hope that the later it happens, the less chance there is that you will be forced to take his place.”  
“It’s your children’s obligation, speaking with sincerity, _Ciriatári_.”  
“Have you thought that my children are also my heirs, Nolofinwë? The Noldorin throne has many heirs; but I’m the only daughter of my father and my children are the only princes of Alqualondë.”  
“There's only one Noldóran, Eärwen.”  
“Give the throne to Fingon.”  
“He never wanted to be king. I forced him: I will not do it again. Also, his husband is a Fëanorion, remember?”  
“Turgon then .”  
“Uh-he’s not popular”, intervened Anairë. “Gondolin - the Bragollach -you know”  
“You are only opposing because the crown takes you away from Fëanor ,“ Eärwen barked . “A king makes sacrifices.”  
“I know!” Fingolfin roared. “I know it much better than you, Eärwen! All my fucking life I've been doing fucking sacrifices: for the crown, for my people, for my children, for my wife -When is my life to play? I thought this was my chance to be happy! For the first time I know what it is to love without fear of losing who I love! For the first time I can be myself! And you demand that I sacrifice myself once more so that your children do not have to do it! What gives you the right to demand such a thing from me?”  
“You owe it to me!”  
“Your people also fought, _Ciriatári_! Your people also killed that day! And they were not cursed! I think we've paid you more than that debt. I especially, " he finished, indicating with a gesture to Anairë, who for a second seemed about to hide under the table. 

Usually, Fingolfin and Eärwen got along. As rulers, they had similar views and as parents, both were she-cats with their children. They were loyal, thoughtful and cunning. Fierce fighters but with a lot of cold blood and very good administrators. Neither of them easily gave in to anger; but when they did ...!  
On more than one occasion, Anairë had thought that Eärwen would have been a better wife for Fingolfin. And definitely, the teler would have been more satisfied with him as a husband. Usually, Fingolfin and Eärwen got along - except when they did not. 

The ghost of the Battle of Alqualondë always hovered over them when they met. Anairë knew it. She herself was not able to forget it: why would the others do it? Eärwen had seen his people die. Fingolfin had killed those people. Anairë knew that Fingolfin had come without knowing what was happening, what unleashed the fight: his only concern had been his family - his children, his nephews, his brother. _His brother_. Even at that moment and how things were between them, Fingolfin had opened a gap between the enemies to get to Fëanor and back to back, the two had fought to have the boats. Afterward, Fingolfin and Fëanor had argued so heatedly that their discussion was heard from outside the booth; but it was done. It was after that day that Anairë informed Fingolfin thats she was not going to Middle Earth, that she would stay with Eärwen.  
_She needs me more than you_ , she had argued and he just nodded. Fingolfin did not usually show his emotions to anyone. Anairë knew herself privileged to have been able to know him intimately, to the point of intuiting each one of his reactions; however, she was still surprised when he exploded. 

Eärwen had risen to her feet and was doing her best to face Fingolfin on equal terms. Despite her short Telerin stature, she was an imposing female with dazzling beauty and enormous inner strength that now burned in her turquoise eyes. However, the understanding that Fingolfin was right mined her attitude. After a few minutes, it was she who turned her face, swearing.

"I know I demand too much, Fingolfin," the queen admitted. “I would go mad if someone wanted to separate me from Anairë. When Finarfin wrote me saying that you wanted her to return to your side, I was about to close the city and put together an army to prevent her from being taken away from me ...”  
“Oh sweetheart! How romantic!” Anairë exclaimed, giving her a look too sweet.  
“But you -you were you once again,” Eärwen continued. “You're right: I'm in debt to you. I know the pain we are causing you. I know that you have refused to return to the political sphere and that you only want to live in peace. I do not approve of your choice: you can have the elf you want to content yourself with an unpleasant one like Fëanor.”  
“He’s the most beautiful elf that exists”, Anairë reminded her, in a low voice. “The most powerful in body and mind of the Noldor.”  
“And also the most conceited bastard - whatever.” Eärwen turned to Fingolfin again. “You have my support. When you decide what you two decide - live together, get married - put a jewelry store...”  
“We haven’t thought about that”, raised his eyebrows Fingolfin.  
“Oh, but Lalwen and I did it!” Anairë jumped. “It's unfair that you had jewelry made by him when we never had one.”

“I mean!” Eärwen intervened. “I mean that I am with you, Arakáno. I’m your friend and your support, and I will support you before the whole world and before the Valar so that you may be happy. As your friend and as High Queen of the Teleri. And I apologize. I apologize for demanding from you that you defer your happiness to serve others.”  
“I'm used to it”, Fingolfin sighed, dropping his shoulders, discouraged.” I wanted to be an explorer and my father forced me to be a politician. I wanted to stay single and they forced me to marry ...”  
“Lucky that went well, huh?” Anairë pointed out.  
“I wanted to go to Formenos with Curufinwe and Father gave me the crown. I wanted to command the army and settle at the gates of Thangorodrim and Maedhros handed me the throne. I will do it again. Maybe that's why Mandos let me out, " he reflected.” Maybe this is my destiny. But, yes.” He watched them with determination. “I want proof of Finarfin's inability before doing anything and I remain in my position as regent for a year. Not another day.”  
“I will write to my children”, Eärwen agreed. “I don’t know how long the answer takes. As you could read in that letter, Finarfin is increasingly paranoid and even has our children's correspondence checked. He only trusts Nerwen, so we cannot trust her: she was always the closest to her father. I promise you that we won’t do anything without being convinced that it is the only option.”  
“Good”, he nodded. “Now, I think we should all go to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day, will not be, Haldatári?”  
“I hope you have a good gift for me. That both have a good gift to me,” declared Anairë pointing them alternately.  
“Oh, but I already gave you my gift!” Eärwen defended herself.  
"When?"  
"Do you think a fountain is unimportant?"  
"As you dare to say that monstrosity is my anniversary gift, Eärwen, you're going to sleep on the floor for a year!” Anairë threatened, furious. 

Fingolfin watched them, amused; but after a moment, his smile turned into a grimace of bitterness: Curufinwë, he repeated in his mind, desperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *High Quenya: let see, in my mind, I think there is a much more cultured way of speaking Quenya - as probably Féanor and his people do - and a popular, more secular form, which is the usual one among the population. Finarfin deciding that only High Quenya will be used implies that many people have to employ themselves thoroughly to be taken into account. That, my friends, is a form of discrimination using the language.


	21. Chapter 21

Nemmireth flinched and turned around as she leaned against the kitchen table. Instinctively, she grasped the knife with which she cut the onions as if it were a dagger and secured her bare feet on the cold ground, preparing for the defense.  
Immediately, the blush tinted her cheeks as she realized what she had just done - especially because the newcomer was watching her with a raised eyebrow and her head slightly cocked. Slowly, she lowered the knife and released the air. When she perceived that the other was still studying her with interest, the young elf pouted.

“I'm sorry”, modulated barely audible.  
“Good grip”, praised Fëanor, still on the threshold. “If you received my son that way the first time he entered your bedroom -I know why he is in love with you.”

Nemmireth flushed more vividly, wondering if her father-in-law was a seer.

“It's hard to lose some habits”, she tried to explain himself.  
“I know”,he nodded. “So, have you seen my grandson? Tyelpe - uh -Celebrimbor?”  
"On the other side of the lake, I suppose," she proposed, blinking in surprise. “I’ve not seen him in several days.”  
“Of course”, he sighed. “I should have looked for him there first. It's just ... " He stared at her until Nemmireth swung from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. “Would you mind going there for me? No- well, I'd rather not go these days.”  
“You and Fingolfin argued again?”  
“Excuse me?”

The girl almost bit her tongue while cursing in her mind in every possible way in Sindarin.

“I'm sorry, really”, she said hastily. “It’s that one listens to things and Maglor- he says that it’s much better when- that is, that life is more peaceful now -And the other time they were commenting that you two had fought because you -and he – it’s clear that’s not of my concern if- I'm sorry”, finally sighed, sinking the shoulders.  
“And right now I'm wondering if those dimples are worth it for my son to hear you babble in that way”, snorted Fëanor.  
“I don’t know if I must feel offended or flattered”, she pursed her mouth, reacting.  
“Offended: it was not me who noticed the dimples. In any case, the reason why I do not want to go to Nolvo's house is precisely because he is not there. And he is the only person who is happy to see me, regardless of the time.”  
“I get it.”  
“Then, will you go?”  
“Of course; but can you wait for this to end? I promised Fingon that I would have the stew ready when I arrived.”  
“From what I see, Fingon is still our cook,” frowned Fëanor. “You know what? Go find me my grandson and I take charge of the stew. I will not be as good as my brother in this; but I taught Maedhros how to cook. And it came out pretty good.”

Nemmireth bit her lower lip, considering whether to tell her father-in-law that there could be much praise from Maedhros the Tall; but that he was a good cook ... was none of them. However, seeing that Fëanor was going to the table to continue with the kitchen where she was interrupted, the girl changed her mind and left the knife before drying her hands on a cloth.”

__//______//_______//________//________//__

Fëanor went to the forge with a frown. Nemmireth had informed him a few minutes before that Celebrimbor was not at Fingolfin's house either. In fact, if he got it right, Fëanor found that his grandson had disappeared from the day he asked for Finduilas' hand in marriage. After leaving his daughter-in-law again in charge of the kitchen, Fëanor went to the workshop: Curufin must at least know that his only son planned to marry. With a potential heir to the throne.

Curufin was working on something - as always. That was good: working prevented Curufin from getting into trouble. Something that he had evidently inherited from his father's side, Fëanor admitted when he arrived at the door of the forge.

During the millennia that he remained in Mandos, there were many things that Fëanor missed: the silly laugh of Maedhros when Fingon was near, the unbearable mania of Maglor to tap the harp until the melody came out, the snorts of Celegorm after a week of hunting, the faces of Caranthir when he did not want to go to a ball, Curufin biting his nails while thinking of a new project, the way the twins ended the sentence of the other or laughed at a joke that no one else understood ... There were other things that took longer to understand that he missed: Findis smile when she greeted Finwë, the invariable greeting of Lalwen sticking her tongue out from behind the kings - despite being an adult elf -, Finarfin's habit of playing with the folds of the tunic during the evenings, the glint in Fingolfin's blue eyes that announced the intention to respond to his provocations ... But one of the things he always missed was this: the heat of the forge, the weight of the hammer in his right hand, the sweat sliding in between the apron and the skin, the pressure of the left hand on the piece, the certainty of transforming the metal with each blow, the triumph building on his chest while the work in his mind materialized in his hands ...  
For a moment, Fëanor stopped before crossing the threshold and inhaled to fill his lungs with the smell of fire and metal. Since his reincarnation, he had not worked much. Most of the time he had concentrated on rebuilding the relationship with his children and on haunting Fingolfin like a wolf in a time of heat. Now, looking at Curufin’s silhouette cut by the glow of the forge, Fëanor felt nostalgia. As he went along, he remembered that he had not yet made the bracelets with which he planned to propose to his half-brother.

“ _Yonya._ ”

Curufin stopped the movement with which the hammer descended and half turned. A smile illuminated his aquiline features. 

“ _Atar_ “, returned in Quenya, with a nod. “Are you coming to help me?”  
“Not today, I admit it. Although I have wanted to work just seeing you”, Fëanor laughed. “What do you invent?”  
“Invent - I invent nothing” , Curufin shrugged and left the tools to turn around in front of him. “I work on some pieces that Caranthir needs for his last project at school.”  
“Pieces?”  
“He will build a miniature replica of Barad Eithel. He aims the boys do some of the pieces with their hands and I make appropriate tools.”  
“The handicrafts are no longer popular among the youth”, sighed Fëanor.  
“If from my brother depends, they will be again.”  
“Who would have thought it, being the least skilled one among all.”  
“Caranthir is not a brilliant craftsman; but he is a very good teacher. Do you remember how he taught Finrod to play the harp after Maglor assured him that he did not have time for ‘tearful children’?”  
“You're right: maybe _not being brilliant_ is his talent”, his father nodded.” He has the patience that we do not have.”  
“Are you calling yourself 'brilliant', father? You have not wielded a tool for thousands of years! I'm sure you cannot bend a copper rod, " he assured with a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes.  
" I'm about to accept that challenge, disrespectful boy, " the older elf retorted and, taking a few steps, extended a hand to stir his hair. “Have you forgotten who taught you everything you know?”  
"Of course I did not forget: I'm very grateful to Uncle Angaher," Curufin said with sudden seriousness.  
“Angaher? Angaher ?! That useless one? He barely manages to light the forge without burning his braids!”

Curufin wanted to reply; but the memory of his maternal uncle running out of the forge with his long braids flaming made him burst into laughter. It had been many years of that incident - happened when he was just a child - but the event had been laughable at home for a long time and the fact that Fingolfin (the cold and diplomatic Grand Prince of Tirion) had erupted in laughter seeing his brother's brother-in-law with his head shaved only added more flavor to the fact.  
Fëanor joined the laughter of his fifth child and for a while it was impossible to distinguish the laughter of one of the other. 

“We should not laugh at that”, said Fëanor at last. “The poor guy could have been seriously injured.”  
“Only his vanity was hurt: I understand that he pretended Aunt Lalwen at that time, right?”  
“I still seem to see Lalwen's expression when she saw him all shaved. 'It looks like a naked rat!' she shrieked. Indis almost sank her into the ground of the flip.”  
“I would have liked to see that. And Fingolfin laughing in front of the whole court ... " He made a thoughtful grimace. “I think I've never seen him really laugh.”  
“He used to laugh a lot when he was young. Your uncle used to be very-cheerful, " Fëanor half-smiled, bitterly. 

Curufin bit the inside of his cheek, sensing that half-sad, half-passionate air that had lately befallen his father every time Fingolfin was mentioned. 

“I know you did not come to help me”, said the young elf, shrugging. “And you did not come so we could make fun of Uncle Angaher. I guess you did not come here to talk about Fingolfin ...”  
“You would be the last person I would talk to about him”, raised an eyebrow Fëanor. “I know you do not like him very much.”  
"It's probably your fault. I grew up believing that Fingolfin had done something terrible to you and that's why you hated him.”  
“The relationship between us was too complicated for a child to understand. I apologize for having confused you so much, Curvo.”  
“I know. I did not understand myself either: I hated my uncle; but I liked Fingon and adored Aredhel. It was- confusing to feel that way. Besides, Fingolfin was worthy of admiration in many ways and - I got more confused. But, as I said, you did not come here for us to talk about that. What's wrong, dad?”  
“ Your son. Have you seen Celebrimbor in recent days?”  
“He mentioned something about going to visit Elrond. When he's not on the other side of the lake, generally is with the Half-elf.”  
“They two and Gil-galad seem to make a good trio.”  
“They do”, said Curufin with sudden dryness. “Why are you looking for Celebrimbor? Does something happen with him? Is he in trouble?”  
“Well - I do not know. Is he? " 

Curufin frowned as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Father ...”  
“Well, you did not tell me he planned to marry ...”  
“Marry.”  
“It is what usually follows the step of asking for someone's hand. Especially if that _someone_ belongs to the royal family ...”  
“Father, I do not understand anything,” interrupted Curufin, impatient.  
“I do not understand much either. I mean, your uncle and I thought that Gil and he ...”  
“Gil and he what?” The younger one jumped, with wide eyes.  
“That they had a relationship; but now I learn that Celebrimbor asked for thehand of Finduilas.”  
“ Orodreth's daughter?”  
“Eh -there's no other in Tirion. At least to my knowledge. Finduilas was a fairly common name among the human females of the nobility; but I think the Sindar do not value the name very much.”  
“Celebrimbor asked Finduilas hand in marriage?”  
“Although it may be a matter of superstition: there are no children who are called Fëanor. Or Maedhros. There are also no children named Fingon”, he reflected. Suddenly, his face lit up with understanding. “You had no idea: Tyelpe did not tell you anything about his decision.”  
“No. He did not and I'm going to find out why.”

Fëanor cursed under his breath when Curufin strode past him in long strides. Turning on his heels, he followed him out.

"Advice from the worst father in the world?” He suggested. “Take it easy. Do not yell at him and just listen to what he has to say before passing judgment on his decision.”  
“Do not worry”, his son reassured him, breathing deeply. “I'm not going to talk to Celebrimbor. Not yet.”  
“Ah. I suppose suggesting that you do not attack your son's best friend is ... too paranoid? "  
" I can deal with Ereinion, " Curufin declared, and his nostrils flared. 

Fëanor watched him go to skirt the lake. 

“That's what I fear “, muttered Míriel's son. “Nolvo, you always choose the worst time to go on vacation.”

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

“Out of discussion. I won’t talk to that asshole even if the population of half Tirion is dying of thirst.”

A dry cough followed the declaration of the elf, who half turned to observe the one who was sitting by the window. 

“He doesn’t mean it, Légolas”, the third occupant of the room was quick to reassure him. “Gil can be a braggart sometimes - and a curmudgeon- but if anything matters to him it's the well-being of the people.”  
“I'm sorry”, the young elf apologized, reddening to the tips of his ears. 

Gil-galad made a nonchalant gesture with his hand and turned to the other. 

"Erestor, we've been through this a hundred times. You come, you convince me to go see those idiots, I humble myself, they treat me like a mendicant and then they forget what I asked for.”  
“This time it will be different. Glorfindel and Ecthelion are with us, and have ensured that they will be able to convince Duilin and Rog to support us.”  
“Oh, of course! The support of the 'Lords of Gondolin' is fundamental, much more important than the word of a High King. Fuck you, Erestor!”

This time, Légolas almost felt the urge to stick to the wall. Despite having grown up with Thranduil - whose explosive character had nothing to envy the Noldor -, the prince of Greenwood could not combine the image of King Gil-galad that history gave with the elf who cursed and beat the table in front of them.

“If you allow me, sire”, the younger ventured, standing up .” We have thought about requesting also the support of your father and -and of the king ...”  
“My grandfather is not going to interfere in politics, kid. He made it clear fifty years ago. And believe me: if you include Fingolfin in that negotiation, your people will never have water.”

Silence followed his scathing statement. Légolas turned to look at Erestor, who shook his head and continued to focus on the former High King. 

"Gil, don’t discourage the boy," he reprimanded Gil with mild severity. “You know very well that King Thranduil is not - very happy to have to live with us ...”  
“Well, let him go to the Woods of Oromë, as my uncle suggested. And it is not that I agree with anything that my uncle proposes, young elf”, he replied, facing Légolas; “but your father will never be able to get along with the Noldóran’s Councilors.”  
“My father would be willing to go along with the Noldóran”, clarified the prince, firmly. 

Gil-galad observed him with straight brows pursed. 

“You look a lot like your grandfather”, he declared. “Except for stubbornness: that surely you inherited from your mother.”  
“Thanks, sire.”  
“Stop calling me 'sire': it makes me feel very old. And you look like Elrond before he was funny. The question is, Prince Légolas, that your father will never get to Finarfin. The Councilors will not allow it.”

Légolas frowned. 

"My father is a king like Finarfin.”  
“I doubt it”, half-joked Gil-galad equivocally. "Your father seems to have more - guts than Finarfin. Look, if we were talking about Fëanor or my grandfather, I doubt that any counselor could get in the way.” He thought for a few seconds and added: “Probably, Fëanor and Thranduil would not finish that conversation in a friendly way.”  
“As I said, my father would be willing to get along with the Noldóran” insisted Légolas. “Whatever their name is.”

This time, Gil-galad was speechless. He moved to observe his visitors alternately, hesitating to give credit to his ears. 

“Erestor, we are talking about intervening before the Court in favor of improving the living conditions of the subjects of Thranduil, right?”  
“Ereinion ...”  
“You didn’t come here to get me involved in a conspiracy against the High King, right?”  
“Actually, I just ...”  
“You're not thinking of my father as a substitute, right? He’s a magnificent military one; but a lousy ruler, do you remember? You did all the administrative work!”  
“Gil, we thought that ...”  
“It's not me, right?” He frowned, horrified. “You know I hate to worry about details like crops and diplomatic relations. Wait: **you**? How many of **you**? "  
" Well, as I was saying, Glorfindel and Ecthelion are ... "  
“By Ulmo’s blue balls, you want to crown my grandfather!" 

Erestor only nodded silently. Gil-galad stepped back until he fell into a chair, resting his elbows on his knees to hide his face in his hands. 

“We know, Ereinion, that on one occasion Fingolfin rejected the representatives of the Guilds who came to offer their support to claim ...”  
“If you already know, why do you try again?”He raised his head. “By Mandos’s sake, Erestor, you better than anyone else know how much my grandfather hates the life of the court. You know he will not endure another four hundred years of dealing with laws and ministers only concerned about their own comfort. If he already rejected it once, what makes you think that you will accept to mix in politics now?”  
“Fifty years ago, and with Fingolfin fresh from Mandos, it was not possible to see how much things would get worse. Gil, Finarfin barely rules! Súrion and Isilendil have the reins of Tirion and do what they want. They and their acolytes are destroying our society ...”  
“Finarfin is High King. My grandfather will never agree to overthrow his brother.”  
“He will not do it. The last thing anybody wants is another war between the sons of Finwë. However, I dare to venture that Fëanor will not claim the throne for himself and that, instead, he would offer his support to Fingolfin.”

Gil-galad growled softly. May be. Maybe not. Although he maintained a deep friendship with Celebrimbor, their relationship had focused on helping the former lord of Eregion to overcome the last years of his life. Already in Mandos, both had spent a lot of time together, devoting themselves to rebuilding the world that fell apart on Celebrimbor the moment he discovered Annatar's betrayal. As it was, Gil and Celebrimbor barely talked about their respective families - much less the complicated relationship between their grandparents. Of course, the change in the dynamics between Fëanor and Fingolfin would not go unnoticed; but from there to assure something ... Treating personal topics of others was not common in their friendship. 

The moment Gil-galad stood up to prepare another argument against the coronation of Fingolfin, the study door opened and Curufin burst into the room, using the apron with some tools emerging from his pockets. Upon seeing the visitors, Fëanor's son stopped, pressing his lips as if containing the words he had in mind.

“ Curufin”, Gil-galad greeted, straightening in his seat.  
“Sir”, Erestor imitated him, without losing a bit of his attitude as a real steward. “Allow me to introduce you to Prince Légolas, son of King Thranduil of Greenwwod.”  
“I heard about you and your father”, Curufin conceded, with effort, addressing the young elf. “I've heard rumors that your father is having problems with Finarfin’s Counselors.”  
“I think it begins to be public domain”, sighed Légolas. “My father is not very patient.”  
“Your father is right”, shrugged the Fëanorion. “But he has little support. I suppose that Greymantle has not pronounced in his favor.”  
"King Thingol doesn’t meddle in the politics of other Clans," Erestor recalled impersonally.  
“Of course not!” half-smiled Curufin. “While those Clans have no gems to claim for himself.”  
“All right!” Gil-galad exclaimed, seeing where the conversation was headed. “I suppose, cousin Curufin, that you came to see me. Urgently, judging by your attire. Erestor and Légolas were going out, so - A pleasure to have seen you: you know the way.”  
“Do you even commit to ask him?” Erestor asked.  
“No, dear friend”, the former king smiled with extreme sweetness. “I will leave that honorable task for you: that way, you will receive the screams while I tell you: ' _I told you._ ' Good afternoon to you both. And - Légolas? I hope that your father gets to understand with Isilendil. Personally, I could break that guy's head.”

Gil-galad waited until the visitors had withdrawn to lean back in the chair and crossing his arms across his broad chest, he looked all over Curufin almost provocatively. Deliberately, he paused in the broad shoulders, in the curve of the muscles drawn by the dark skin, in the bronze glow of the chest barely covered by the upper part of the leather apron ... before fixing his attention on the aquiline features, the arched and thick eyebrows, the generous mouth clenched in a rictus of anger. 

“I would like to be flattered by the evidence that you have run here”, Gil-galad began to say after observing him at ease; “but I suspect that seeing me is not the reason for your visit.”  
“Since when do you know?” Curufin demanded, taking a step in his direction.  
“We better go upstairs”, the youngest proposed, getting up. “I'd hate for someone to interrupt us in the middle of our - talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * yonya: (q) my son.  
> * atar: (q) father.


	22. Chapter 22

Gil-galad's bedroom looked like a teenager's room. Curufin grumbled as he walked around a column of books, a chair full of clothes and some infantry props that looked like stolen from a museum.

“Now that we are calmer”, said Gil, dropping on the bed to remove his boots with the tips of his feet , “would you mind repeating the question?”  
“Don’t play with me, Ereinion”, growled Fëanor’s son, focusing on him. “You know why I'm here.”  
“Oh, how formal”, raised one eyebrow the other and leaned back in his hands. “As it seemed to me before, my games don’t bother you. And no, I have no fucking idea of the reason for your visit. Unless you've realized that you can’t be a minute longer without me. And the idea has surprised you working.”  
“Stop bullshit! Celebrimbor! I'm here for you to explain to me what it is that stupidity that he‘s going to marry.”  
“Wait: shouldn’t you be asking your son that?”  
“I don’t want to argue with him”, explained Curufin.  
“And with me you do?”  
“You knew, right?”  
“He mentioned that he would take the big step; but he did not tell me ‘when’. In fact, I thought he was somewhat worried about the reaction that Finarfin might have. I think the High King isn’t very convinced that we are a good influence. Not only the Fëanorion”, he clarified. “Not my father, my aunt and me. I don’t think Elrond is welcome in the Court either: his ideas and the fact that he keeps calling two notorious kinslayers 'dad' is - let's say it doesn’t make a good impression on some people.”  
“Since when did you know that my son was planning to marry Finduilas?”  
“ Well, getting married - getting married came up a few months ago, when they came to the conclusion that they would like to have children and the idea of having physical contact with another person did not horrify either of them.”  
“Months”, Curufin repeated, blinking dazedly. “How many? Exactly.”  
“Two- Three? It's not like Cel tells me minute by minute of his life, you know? He's- very reserved and sometimes weeks go by before he's honest.”

Curufin staggered to an empty chair and let himself fall heavily. He rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to get used to the idea.

“When did this - romance start? How long has it been happening?2  
“About two years after Celebrimbor was reincarnated more or less. It didn’t start like a romance, actually. They met at one of the meetings at Elrond's house- you know, the mutual aid meetings: Maedhros, Maeglin, Celebrian, Celebrimbor - Finduilas was the new guest and - well, they knew each other from Nargothrond, so - Finduilas relied more on him than in the rest of us, whom she saw for the first time. From that moment they began to write to each other - and I suppose you imagine the rest. “  
“More than eighty years have passed since Celebrimbor’s reincarnation”, said Curufin, turning pale.  
“So long?” Gil frowned. “Woh! Time flies. Both needed to overcome a lot. Besides, eighty years is not so much time for the elves: look at Finrod and Amarië! They were engaged for 15 millennia! I hope they don’t take the same time to have children or the boys will arrive after the Dagorath.”  
“Eighty years”, Curufin repeated, abstracted. “And nobody thought it opportune to make me a participant in the situation.”

Gil-galad watched him, chewing on his lower lip.

“That-is it a claim?” he asked. “Are you complaining because I didn’t convince your son to tell you? Or because I didn’t tell you?”  
“You didn’t think you should do one of the two things?”  
“I don’t convince Cel to do anything”, he declared, getting up with agility. “I listen to him, I advise him, I support him- but I **don’t convince** him of anything. In fact, I limit many of my advices: Celebrimbor would accept them without discussing them. He would do what I said without questioning my opinion just because he didn’t listen to me once. **Once that cost him his fucking life!** So no. I don’t take advantage of this influence that I know I have about him: this is not how it’s supposed to help him get out of the darkness in which he spent so much time. Yes, I mentioned that maybe - **maybe!** \- he should talk to you and tell you that he was in love with Finduilas. He decided not to do it: he didn’t want to create false hopes or create them for you. I let it be”, he concluded with an eloquent gesture. “It was his decision, not mine. The relationship between you both doesn’t concern me and has nothing to do with what I have with my father. Now, why should I have told you?”  
“Are you really asking that?” Curufin jumped, sitting up to face him.

Gil shrugged.

“No matter what there is between us, Curufin, your son is my best friend and his trust is something I will never betray.” At the stupefied expression of the Fëanorion, he raised an eyebrow and added, in a provocative tone: “Not even for the best sex of my life.”

For a second, Curufin remained motionless. His gray eyes were fixed on those of the elf in front of him. Fëanor's son knew first-hand Ereinion’ history: how a young sinda had become obsessed with the Prince of Hithlum to the point of drugging him to get pregnant, how she had later tried to get Fingon to take her for a wife, how she had tried to kill herself when she realized that she would never get displacing the Lord of Himring in the Crown Prince's heart, how Lalwen herself had rescued the baby before the mother could harm him, how Ereinion had been raised as the rightful heir to the Noldor crown despite being a misbegotten son. Curufin recalled Maglor's concern that this child would take Fingon away from Maedhros and then, what would it be like to tie his older brother to life? To sanity? Curufin remembered the rare occasions when he saw Fingon with his son: a thin, restless child who kept asking questions. He remembered the love Maedhros felt for the only one who, in the end, could dispute him Fingon's heart. But, more important than the memories from the First Age, Curufin knew that he had a debt to the elf in front of him; a debt of gratitude, the debt of a father towards the friend of his son; a friend who had chosen to stay in the Timeless Halls until Celebrimbor healed enough to accept being reincarnated. However, at that moment, looking at his reflection in the green-gilt crystal eyes of Gil-galad, the least that came to Curufin Fëanorion's mind were memories of an infant or debts of gratitude. 

Gil-galad had inherited the vanyarin stature of his grandfather and uncle; but the thin and agile constitution of his Sindarin mother. Like Fingolfin, Gil-galad's hair was a smooth mane, black until it seemed liquid and now it was combed in a net of fine half-braids that were joined at the back of the head and then lowered down to half back. The last High King in Exile did not respond to the canons of beauty of any of his two races: he lacked the delicacy of the Sindar as much as the marked Noldorin features; however, taken together, he was inevitably attractive. And Curufin knew it.   
Curufin knew the strength that too-slender-for-an-artisan hands concealed. He knew the power of the too-elegant-for-a-warrior body. He knew the skill of those too-flashy-for-a-male pink lips.

A shudder escalated his spine and, furious with himself for reacting like a teenager to the advances of that boy, he jumped forward with his fist raised. 

Gil-galad smiled as he stepped aside with agility. Curufin's stroke barely touched his chin and before the Fëanorion realized that he had failed, the arms of Fingon's son surrounded him from behind.   
Despite his too-elegant appearance, Gil-galad possessed strength and training. With relative ease, he lifted Curufin off the floor and tossed him onto the bed a few steps away. 

The blacksmith turned, roaring in anger, ready to jump back on the other elf. Gil received him with a knee on the edge of the bed. In a matter of seconds, they were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight. 

Curufin wanted to break this idiot's face. Not only had he dared to hide Celebrimbor's plans, but he reduced what happened between them to 'sex'. _Sex?_ He had been the first male to take him! In fact, he had been his first lover since separating from Calemmireth! And it had been **glorious**! Not the best sex of his life! That is, not **only the best sex of his life**. It had been **something else**. For _him_ , definitely, it had been something else. But only for him, it seemed. 

The embroidered silk shirt of Gil-galad was a blue shred that undressed the torso. Curufin's silvery eyes stopped at his nipples adorned with gold rings and blood boiled in his veins. He wanted to touch him and at the same time, he wanted to hit him until Gil stopped looking at him with that mocking, conceited expression. 

“I love when you look at me like that”, Gil-galad commented, biting his lower lip.  
“You're a fucking ... “

He did not finish the sentence, preferring to pounce on him. He was not sure how their hands managed to finish tearing each other's clothes and he did not know at what moment of the fight his few clothes went from covering him to flying through the bedroom. Even as he struggled (hitting, scratching, kicking) he knew the exact second when Gil-galad separated his thighs and entered him with a single thrust. 

For a few moments they froze. Curufin cursed under his breath and began to move in the possession that burned and filled. His lover moaned loudly and responded by imposing the rhythm, forcing him to arch, lifting him by the hips until only Curufin's head and heels remained anchored to the mattress. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

He opened his eyes with effort. He hadn’t slept; but all his body hurt and the languor that weighed on his limbs prevented him from moving. Immediately, a hand slid down his wet torso (from the pelvis to the neck) and took him by the chin to turn his face. Without closing his eyes, he received Gil's wet, warm kiss. The twists of the tongue inside his mouth and the exploration of the teeth that delineated awakened his spirit. He raised his hands to entangle one in the now loose hair and cling with the other to his partner's hip.

"Much better," Gil-galad murmured in his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip. “I prefer you when you want to kiss me.”  
“Maedhros would kill me if he knew where I am”, Curufin growled before pulling him to kiss him more deeply.   
“It worries you?” Asked the younger while backing down. 

For the first time in the afternoon, Curufin saw Fingon's son frown. 

“It was just a comment”, he shrugged. “Get rid of me: you don’t let me breathe.”  
“That was not what you were saying a while ago”, half smiled his lover. 

No, that wasn't, Curufin admitted, following him with his eyes as he left the bed. Gil had the most beautiful butt he had ever seen ... and the thought made the Fëanorion blush like a teenager when he saw that the marks of his nails and teeth were everywhere in that almost pearly skin. Laboriously, he sat against the back of the bed. A string of swear words came to mind when he experienced the ache of pain in his back and sides, as well as the burning in his insides. He tightened his jaws, refusing to admit his weakness.

“Take this.”

Curufin raised his face to find the glass of wine that Gil offered before sitting next to him. He murmured a 'thank you' and drank in silence, fighting against the impulse to snuggle into his partner's side and feel the warmth of his body. _What the hell was wrong with him?_ He was Fingon's son, for all the damned Valar. It was something like his nephew ... or his second cousin. He had known him when he was a child and threw toys to the ground for the pleasure of being picked up by others. He was Celebrimbor's best friend. How had things been twisted up to this point (the point of wanting to touch him and kiss him, and sit on his lap and just stay there)? Well, he knew how it had happened: Gil had always seemed devilishly attractive, and that freshness of his ways had only made it worse. In addition, there was the fact that Gil-galad had never concealed that he found Curufin beautiful. On more than one occasion, Curufin had been caught blushing before the stare of his ... nephew-second-cousin. When he reached something or crossed in a corridor, Gil managed to touch him, to rest his body against Curufin, letting him feel his warmth. And then, at Finrod's wedding ... there was too much alcohol. Alcohol and darkness. And kisses that devoured his mouth and explored his sex. Words whispered in his ears, in his skin. And pain - an exquisite pain that tore at his soul for pleasure to reassemble. Curufin clearly remembered his own hoarse voice pleading more, his fingers clinging to the male on top of him, his body demanding more (more pain, more pleasure ... _more Gil-galad_ ). Just as he had done this afternoon.

"Are you feeling well?" 

The question startled him as much as the fingers that caressed his temple. He blinked, stunned, before meeting the light eyes of the youngest. 

“Yes”, he answered with confidence. “Why ...?”  
“You had a weird expression. All of you do that sometimes: leave the world.”   
“We?”  
“You, your father, my fathers, Celebrimbor, my grandfather, Maglor- When something worries you, you -evade. You leave me talking alone.”  
“I didn’t think you talked that much with Maglor.”   
“He's Elrond's father: we have a lot to talk about.”  
“You and Elrond ...”  
“Me and Elrond- what?”  
“Were…? You know – _this_ ”, he indicated with a gesture the space between their naked bodies. 

Gil raised an eyebrow and Curufin regretted asking. 

“Could you be more specific?” Gil-galad asked, with an innocent expression.  
“Lovers, Ereinion. You and Elrond were lovers? Many people think so.”  
“Many people believe that you and Finrod were lovers”, he retorted.  
“That’s nonsense! Finrod and I never - You are diverting the subject!”  
“Elros”, said Gil-galad, simply. “Elros and I were lovers. Elrond was always more - reserved. He fell in love with Celebrían very young - and it wasn’t quite right at the beginning. Galadriel wasn’t very happy to have as his son-in-law Maedhros’s foster son. “  
“What a novelty”, mused Curufin.“Then, you and - Elros, right?”  
“A very short time, actually. Elros chose the Destiny of Men.”  
“Do you miss him?”  
“We were close. Besides being lovers, I mean. We were good friends.”  
“It was-? I mean, I guess he was not your only lover.”

As soon as he said it, Curufin knew he was making a fool of himself. Did he really want to know how many men Gil-galad had slept with? Was he really asking that question after having sex with him? He looked like a fucking jealous woman! Right now, he could remember Celegorm trashing the house after learning of Aredhel's marriage to Eöl. Actually, _he was a jealous Fëanorion._

“Do you want a list of my lovers?” arched an eyebrow the once High King. “I confess that some I did not know their name: they were a thing of a time, a meeting - especially during the war. But if you want familiar names - Glorfindel, Oropher ... Elendil - you know, the father of Isildur, my ally in the war against Sauron -However, my most lasting relationship was with Lindir, my harpist master of the Court. Between one thing and another, we were together for most of my reign. I asked Elrond to take care of him if something happened to me. It was - the closest thing to being in love that I've ever felt. Satisfied?”  
“ It was curiosity”, Curufin growled, evoking the image of the harpist that he saw several times in Maglor's company: too cute, hell. 

And now that he thought about it, what did Gil-galad see in him? Taking into account the names of his bedfellows, Fingon's son preferred males of androgynous beauty, almost effeminate, and although Curufin inherited his father's physique largely, he didn’t enter at all into the definition of 'androgynous'. His cheekbones were too marked, his nose, aquiline, his chin, a little square ... and his body was almost coarse compared to other elves. From what he had verified, Gil-galad liked to be the dominant one in the relationship ... Oh dear! He had just realized that he enjoyed being subdued and used by another male. No, _this male_. 

“You're blushing again”, Gil said, delineating Curufin’s left cheekbone with the tip of his index finger.   
“It's hot here”, he defended himself, slipping away from his closeness and the betrayal of his half-hard sex. “I came to see you by Celebrimbor.”  
“I know.” Gil's hands fell on his shoulders, gently holding him on the bed to start massaging. “But I don’t like to see you that tense. It’s impossible to talk to you when you are furious.2  
"I'm furious most of the time," confessed Curufin, squinting as the other's lips brushed the back of his neck.  
“Then, we should do this more often.”  
“Don’t you get tired?”  
“Never. You’re exquisite. I’ve wanted to have you for so long that I think it will never be enough.”  
“You make it seem like it's something important to you.”  
“It is.”

Curufin just moaned while Gil's hand wrapped around his sex and the other forced him to throw his head back. For the next few minutes, he could only let himself be done, shuddering against his lover's chest and panting his name as he came to lie boneless in his arms. 

Gil-galad shifted position to accommodate his companion in bed and lay down beside him, leaning on one elbow to observe him. 

“Cel has trouble trusting people”, he said without further ado. Curufin battled with lassitude in hroa and fëa to concentrate on the conversation.  
“I am aware of it”, he admitted.   
“Perhaps; but you don’t understand it completely. After you left Nargothrond, Cel cut himself off from everyone. Despite his decision and that Orodreth continued to treat him as his family and friend, there were many who rejected him because of his blood. The arrival of Túrin worsened things. Celebrimbor had nothing against the boy; but he reminded him too much of his own family to be alert. As you know, Túrin was very much loved in Nargothrond, so Cel was more rejected when they realized he didn’t like the human. He lived a long time in solitude before meeting with you. Your death - hit him very hard. It was one of the things that brought us closer when he went to live with Círdan. We were both orphans. Both our mothers abandoned us. Cel and I have been friends for longer than I lived with my own family. But neither on our side did he find peace. He was still a Fëanorion and people feared him, hated him - judged him. He went to Eregion and built a kingdom for himself. When Annatar arrived –“ A shadow of anger and pain covered Gil's soft features and Curufin's chest tightened. “I never liked him. He was too perfect to be real. He tried to seduce me - not only with power and knowledge. I felt something was not right and I kicked him out of Lindon. Elrond didn’t trust him either, and Celebrimbor was not sure at first. But then ...”  
“Then he fell in love with him.”

“Annatar did not judge him. He did not have a pre-made image of him. Celebrimbor was Celebrimbor, lord of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain; not Fëanor's heir, not Curufin's son, not Maedhros's nephew. Don’t get me wrong: he’s not ashamed to be any of that; but people tend not to see beyond those definitions. And there is much more on Celebrimbor than his family. Annatar was his ideal companion: a colleague, a friend, an investigator - a dreamer”, he concluded with a sigh. “I warned him. Elrond and I warned him to be careful: the Valar had not helped us before, why send a messenger now? Why send an emissary openly? When he discovered the truth -it was too late. Annatar revealed histrue identity ...”  
"Sauron," Curufin muttered, the name burning his throat like poison. “I would like ...”

“Me too.” His blue-green eyes flashed with physical, tangible hatred. “It was on Celebrimbor who I thought about when I confronted him. I wanted to hurt him as much as he did to my friend. It was not my destiny. Not then, at least. I don’t think Sauron was a liar at all: I think he meant to share some of his power with Celebrimbor. Alone with him.”  
“Do you imply that monster ...”  
“Love your son? As much as he can be able to love, I believe it. You didn’t see what he did to his body: it was not the wrath of a defeated enemy; _it was the anger of a rejected lover._ Anyway, Celebrimbor was more damaged than we all supposed. He had trusted someone, had opened his heart - and had turned out to be someone who did not exist. Not only did he stop trusting others; but he stopped trusting himself. We spent a lot of time in Mandos trying to him open himself again, to let me in. In spite of having reincarnated, of returning to work - Cel is still too fragile. Physical contact scared him until a few months ago. More than three people in a room caused him anxiety attacks. Darkness frightens him. When I realized what was happening with Finduilas, I was about to have a party. I had to restrain myself. I had already verified that Celebrimbor obeys my suggestions as if they were a divine mandate. When I asked him why he was doing it, he told me that he would never make the mistake of ignoring my words again. I have to be careful with him, with what I tell him - And I have to be careful with the trust he has placed in me. It is a treasure too valuable to lose.”

“That's why you did not tell me before. I get it. And I also understand that you had no obligation to do so. It's just that it hurt a lot - It hurt me that my son made that decision and did not tell me. I am - I am learning to be his father again, do you understand? I lost him once and every time I find it more difficult to recover him.”  
"Patience, beauty," Gil agreed, and leaned in to kiss him lightly on the lips. “I know that it is not one of the virtues of your family; but take an example from your father: he seems to have learned to have it!”  
“My father is not trying to recover his only son”, Curufin growled.   
“Nope. He’s trying to conquer the 'snow-king'. “  
“How ...?”  
“I think everyone in our family knows. Even Elrond, who lives ten miles outside of Tirion. Eh -Turgon doesn’t know it or he would have made a scandal.”  
“Fingolfin wouldn’t like to hear you talk like that.”  
“Nor would he think it’s funny to see me now”, he added and this time he kissed Curufin passionately, moving to stand on top of him.   
“Aren’t you worried about someone discovering us?” Curufin asked, breathing raggedly while the other's hands explored his torso and hips.   
“My room “, Gil said between kisses and gasps. “Although I'm going to have to worry about keeping you quiet.”  
“Seriously? How do you expect me to be quiet when - _fuck_!”, almost cried when the fingers entered him.   
“When do I do this?” laughed his lover. 

The only response was the Fëanorion’s increasingly loud moans. Suddenly, Gil-galad stopped the movement of his hand and remained motionless. Curufin opened his eyes and looked at him with a frown. 

“What ?!”, demanded.  
“I'm thinking ...”  
“Now?!”  
“All the time: it's a family evil. I'm thinking if you're comfortable with this.”  
“Really? Shouldn’t you have asked that before you put my cock in your mouth and made me cum like a teenager in his first time?”  
“That was memorable”, smiled Gil-galad. “But I mean the other part.”

Curufin shook his head, not understanding, making a visible effort not to move on the fingers that were still inside his ass. 

“The part where I take you. Are you okay with that?”  
“ Are you kidding? Do you think I'd let you do it if it was not like that? "   
" Well, you don’t look like the type of elf who lets another male dominate him. I'm really used to being the one on top - I mean, I've never left another male- I have not even considered it in reality ...”  
“Oh, Aulë! You had to be your father's son and your grandfather’s grandson ", Curufin grumbled impatiently. “Stop talking stupid things and just - you know what, damn it! "

Gil raised his eyebrows; but the order was not repeated. Obediently, he did what Curufin wanted, causing the blacksmith to let out a moan of relief when his cock filled him to hit his center. As he began to move cautiously, Fingon's son leaned over to put his mouth to his ear and murmured: 

"We could try it the other way, you know? I’d be willing to let you take me. I would like to know what it feels like to have a cock inside of me. Your cock, to be more specific.”  
“Next time!” promised Curufin, lost in the rhythm of the attacks, surrounding Gil-galad’s waist with his legs.   
“Next time”, Gil repeated, smiling happily at the convincing that there would be a ' _next time_ '.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tulukhedelgorûz: valarin name of Laurelin, the Golden Tree of Valinor.  
> Herendil: (q) friend of fortune.  
> indyo: grandson (q).  
> Hanónya: my brother. (q)

Fingolfin entered through the kitchen door and closed it. He had taken a few steps away when he returned and, shaking his head, removed the latch.

“In case someone hasn’t come home”, he muttered to himself.

While crossing the dining room that followed the kitchen, he thought about the possibility of summoning Fëanor as he used to do in the past. For a moment, he abstracted himself in the memories of the afternoons dedicated to training his mind under his elder brother’s strict supervision. A smile danced on his lips to evoke the day he surprised Fëanor by welcoming him with his mind long before the Crown Prince even entered the palace: the joy of his half-brother had only been similar when one of his own children got a public triumph. Many years and many sorrows had passed since those days. Much distance had been created between the two brothers - to the point that even the most powerful osanwë could not bridge the gap between them. Fingolfin lost the way to the mind of his half-brother: he **lost** it on purpose after his mind crashed into a diamond wall every time he tried to approach. In Mandos, some of that closeness had been recovered and after reincarnations, Fingolfin had exercised the call on rare occasions. Only during the ecstasy of sex hours, Indis's son had dropped his defenses enough for his soul to overflow and brush against his brother's; but still the fear of finding an impassable wall was too ... present.

On the other hand, he reflected coldly, were he really prepared to face Fëanor? What would hesay? Was he really ready to see the disappointment and disdain in those mercurial eyes once more? Was he really ready to renounce happiness once more? As long as he didn’t talk to Fëanor, as long as he did not explain what was happening, as long as he did not give voice to his decision ... it would not seem real.

Fingolfin recalled the beliefs of some avarin tribes: ' _if you don’t name it, it doesn’t exist; there is only that which the kwendë names_ '. In that way, the avarin believed that as long as they did not name the beasts, they did not exist. If someone had been injured, while death was not mentioned, it would not make an appearance ... because it did not exist yet. When a baby was born, the first thing was to give them a name: until they did not have it, they had not started to exist. It was a wonderful belief. If only it were true. Fingolfin knew well that not talking about things did not make them disappear; on the contrary: the less they were mentioned, the more problems grew.

Immersed in his own thoughts, Fingolfin almost tripped over the elf who emerged from the nearest room. Disconcerted, he supported himself against the wall while finding the eyes frightened of ... Curufin?  
“U-uncle” the blacksmith stammered, looking everywhere as if he wanted to sink into the carpet.

“Curufin. What a surprise to find you here so early. Do you need something?”  
“N-no! I'm going - I'm going out, " Curufin informed. “We didn’t wait for you until - in a week at least.”  
“I came back earlier.”  
“ I-I see it.”

Fingolfin almost raised an eyebrow at the constant stammering of the most proud and sure of himself among his nephews.

“So, did you solve it?”  
“What?” Curufin almost shouted at his uncle's question.  
“Whatever you came to do at my house at this time.”  
“Y-yes. Yes! Everything -everything resolved. I'm going- see you later.”

In a hurry, the youngest passed by the older elf, looking for the stairs with his head down.

“Curufin! “ Fingolfin called, turning around half. “Is your father at home?”  
“Ah- no- I don‘t know. We have not spoken since - since yesterday.”  
“ I see. Everything okay with Caranthir?”

Again, Curufin choked on his own breath. Caranthir? Was something happening with Caranthir? Why did Fingolfin ask him about Caranthir? Had something happened to Caranthir?

“Eh- well ...”  
“It was him you came to see, wasn’t it? Celegorm and Aredhel are visiting Lómion and Idril. I found them there.”  
“Caranthir is fine”, replied Curufin hastily. “Sleeping. Good morning, uncle -Fingolfin -Good day!”

Finwë's son was petrified watching him run down the stairs to disappear through the kitchen door.

“Weird”, he muttered to himself and went back to his rooms, with the idea of taking a bath before thinking about his plans for the day.  
“You come back!”

Fingolfin opened his arms instinctively to hug his grandson. Gil settled on his chest like when he was a child, tucking his head under his grandfather's chin.

“How much love so early”, protested Fingolfin, frowning. “Did you drink last night?”  
“ Nope.” Gil-galad denied with a mischievous smile and Fingolfin narrowed his eyes to observe him through the long lashes.

The scent of lavender and musk filled his nose. Gil awake so early? Having bathed already? Suspicion began to weigh in Fingolfin's stomach.

“Did you see your ... cousin?”  
“Cel?” Asked the young elf, moving the length of his arms to look at his grandfather.  
“Curufin. He left here right now.”  
“Why ...”  
“Good morning, Fingolfin, Ereinion.”

Fingolfin put his arm around his grandson and turned to meet Caranthir, smiling sweetly. 

"Arriving now? Your father will give me a terrible quarrel if he finds out that I don’t take good care of you, Moryo.”  
Caranthir blinked slowly, as if he were already used to his uncle's jokes.  
“My father should be grateful that I have somewhere to eat decent food.”  
“Don’t tell him that my food is better than his: he will never recover from the blow.”  
“I think he already knows. That's why he abandoned you in Araman: he was afraid that we would go with you to eat something that worked.”  
“Aww! You warm my heart, nephew.”  
“Yep. I'm going to take a bath and rest for a while. Before your heart melts in the heat and a puddle forms in the hallway. Ereinion”, he said once more, passing by them. 

Fingolfin looked down at the elf he was still holding.

"Then, _indyo_ ," he said with excessive sweetness, "did you see your cousin Curufin or not?" 

Gil bit his lower lip.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Fingolfin dismounted before the royal stables. Two waiters ran to meet him to take the reins and take charge of his horse. The prince recommended that they refresh the animal; but that they didn’t give him much food, since he didn’t plan to delay. The servants nodded, bowing so many times that their long braids ended up touching the floor at Fingolfin’s feet, who narrowed his eyes with ill-concealed annoyance. In his time, the servants of the Noldóran were not so servile.

After taking a long bath while thinking about his recent discovery - that is, the relationship between Gil and Curufin - Fingolfin had decided to go to the Mindon Eldalieva. It had been a few months since he had visited his younger brother and Finwë's second son was wondering if he had ever noticed the changes in Finarfin's character. As he walked through the lavishly lit galleries, Fingolfin told himself that he was cheating: before seeing Finarfin, he must have tried to talk to Fëanor. With a hiss of impatience, he silenced the inner voice that accused him of being a coward and told the usher to announce his arrival to the High King.

“His Majesty has already been informed of your arrival, my prince” said the servant with a deep bow. “He awaits you in the Hall of Tulukhedelgorûz.”  
“Tulukh ...?” began to ask Fingolfin before realizing. “Ah! You mean Laurelin’s Hall.”  
“We use not that name in the palace, my lord.” corrected the usher, with an uncomfortable half smile.  
"My brother knows how much I detest the valarinwa, Herendil," declared the Grand Prince, not caring about the implications of his comment. “Not even during my first adolescence was I able to learn it: at this point, it’s illogical for someone to expect me to start talking it. Guide me, please: I am sure that this room did not exist when I lived in this palace.”

When he was in the room chosen by Finarfin to receive him, Fingolfin realized that, in fact, the room always existed, only that in his first life it was called the “Hall of the Cherry Trees.” Naturally, Fingolfin only reached that conclusion by the way they went to get to the room because of the old decoration there was no trace.

As the new name promised, the room they were in was a large, high-ceilinged room (up there, everything as he remembered it). The walls were covered with laminated gold that gleamed constantly. All the furniture was also gold, with details in green spring and only the floor retained the usual glass in the early Noldorin buildings. However, the most striking feature of the decoration, without a doubt, was the tree that rose in the center of the room: for a moment, Fingolfin frowned, thinking he was facing a sprout of the original tree; but as he approached, he found that it was a perfect replica made in the most precious materials. Instinctively, he reached out to stroke one of the golden fruits that hung above his head.

“A wonderful image, do not you think?” commented a soft voice. “I bet it brings back memories to you.”  
“It's ... a magnificent job, _hanónya_ ”, Fingolfin nodded, turning in front of Finarfin. “My congratulations to the artisan.”  
“The design is mine. Many artisans worked on it”,said Finarfin and with a gesture, indicated the table arranged under the broad branches of the artificial tree.  
“A beautiful idea, I admit it. And I suppose very expensive.”

Finarfin stopped his walk; but, he did not turn to his brother: instead, with a gesture, indicated to the maid that followed him that the tea should be served.

“Beauty is always expensive, my brother. Have you forgotten?”  
“You know I was never an artist”, half-smiled the older while taking a seat in one of the armchairs around the table.

The king's crystalline eyes stopped a second on him; but Fingolfin pretended not to notice.

“No”, smiled Finarfin with extreme softness. “Art was never your thing, Arakáno; however, you were always a lover of beauty. Although you prefer beauty - unrefined.”  
“I admit that I am a barbarian”, he shrugged. “I prefer a thousand times the beauty of a stallion running in freedom to the elegance of a horse harnessed with jewels and the finest horsehair.”  
“Yes, you always preferred things in their most- wild state. However, you married one of the most refined ladies of Tirion-upon-Túna, the beauty of the Court and a very talented artist.”  
“Anairë is all that, yes; but she also has her wild side," Fingolfin laughed and took the cup of tea the maid offered him. “Thank you. Jasmine tea?” He smelled the tea before bringing it to his lips.  
“A very scarce variety of jasmine, actually. I doubt Anairë could fill your need for -savagery. Either way, you were used to something more - intense.”

If Fingolfin had not been the politician he was, he would have drowned with tea. Bringing the cup back to the table, he didn’t look at his younger brother before addressing the maid. 

"Please, creature, could you leave us alone? I need a private audience with our sovereign.”

The girl looked away in the direction of Noldóran, who did not move, keeping his eyes fixed on the prince. Seeing that the king was not of opinion, the maid made a caravan and hastened to leave the room, closing the door behind her.  
Only then did Fingolfin turn in the seat to meet his brother's gaze.  
With the excessive illumination of the room and the glow of the gold surrounding them, Fingolfin hadn’t had the opportunity to detail his brother. His first reaction was to frown and only his well-known self-control stopped him from showing his surprise and disapproval: why the hell was Finarfin made up like an old human female? Fingolfin studied the excess mask that whitened Finarfin's complexion and wondered how he could talk without the dust cracking like parched clay. To complete, a violet shade touched the eyelids, gold dust covered the eyelashes and the lips had been painted with a peachy hue that hardly highlighted the curve of his mouth. Inevitably, Fingolfin remembered the images of Ar-Pharazón that he saw in history books (only that the human ruler used to dye his skin in gold to resemble the representative of the God of the Earth, better known as Sauron). A feeling of nausea began to build up in his stomach. 

“For a moment “, Finarfin said in his soft, almost caressing tone; “I thought you had forgotten who the High King was between the two of us.”  
“I never would, dear brother”, he reassured him easily. “Your position is something I don’t want to ever return.”  
“You never took my position.”

Fingolfin tightened his jaw slightly. 

"Right. While I reigned in Hithlum, you reigned here”, he granted, unalterable. “In any case, I repeat: your position is something I don’t want.”  
“I remember those same words you used to say to Fëanáro.”  
“Then, as now, I was sincere.”  
“However”, Finarfin continued as if he had not heard Fingolfin’s intervention, “as soon as father died, you claimed the crown for yourself.”  
“At that time I was younger and more impulsive. And much less aware of the consequences of my actions” said the elder, without letting it be known if the words of Finarfin had affected him.” Anyway, I've come to deal with you about family matters, not politics. I heard that Celebrimbor is engaged with Finduilas ...”  
“No.” Finarfin denied dryly, getting stiff in his seat.  
“Not what? Finduilas didn’t accept Celebrimbor’s proposal? I understood that relationship was flourishing quite well”, he lied with aplomb.  
“There. Is. Not. Such. Relationship”, growled Finarfin, slowly, anger drawing red veins in the whites of his eyes. 

Fingolfin watched him, not moving. Slowly, he took the cup and brought it to his lips to take a sip before leaving it once more. 

“I thought you were aware of the situation. As I knew, you were there when our nephew asked Orodreth for the hand of his only daughter ...”  
“That cursed bastard is not my nephew!” Finarfin roared, jumping up. 

Fingolfin looked at him coldly and the High King forced himself to cling to the carved arms of the chair to control his impulses. Inhaling deeply, he waited for his breathing to slow down to add, in an almost gentle tone: 

“I have no relationship with that family of murderers and traitors.”  
“Seriously? Have you ceased to be Finwë's son, Arafinwë Finwion?”

A tense silence followed Fingolfin's question. Anger had replaced any emotion in the spirit of Indis's eldest son. Everyone was deceived: Finarfin was not affected psychologically; all he had was that he hated Fëanor. Nothing else. 

“There is only one son of Finwë Nólemë”, declared Finarfin firmly. “And he is the High King of the Noldor.”

This time, Fingolfin uncrossed the leg that he passed over the other a moment before and slowly got to his feet.

"Can you repeat that ... dear brother?" 

For a moment, Finarfin blinked, dazed and a slight fear appeared in his clear eyes. In the past, he had witnessed Fingolfin's cold anger; but this one had never addressed him. However, the insecurity passed quickly and rising to his full height to face his older brother, the king said, calmly: 

“Both you and that monster have been reincarnated: every blood bond with my father has been removed.”  
“That is, only you and Findis are children of Finwë now.”  
“Yes.”  
“And, did you think that stupidity you alone or someone else helped you think it?”

Finarfin's eyelids fluttered like nervous butterflies. 

“Be careful how you talk to me, Arakáno. I am your king ...”  
“And as you say more stupidity I'll give you a beating so you can remember who the hell is the big brother here, Ingoldo. What the hell do you think you're doing when you renege on me? Are you mad?!” Fingolfin continued without stopping to observe the effect of his words on his younger brother. “I came to see you ‘cause I cannot believe that you really locked your granddaughter in her rooms because she was in love with Celebrimbor. I also didn’t want to believe the things they say you have done. Charge a fee to study at the Academy, Arvo? High Quenya as official language? Prohibit the use of Sindarin? Plating a room in gold when there are people who don’t have how to pay for their existence in _your kingdom_? Have you lost your mind?  
“I am not crazy!” shouted Finarfin, with wide eyes. “I'm the king! I am the High King of the Noldor and you cannot judge me! You are nobody! You are nothing!”  
“I was a king too, Finarfin!”  
“You are nothing! You were nothing! I am the only king of the Noldor! You are another traitor! Another slayer! Another thief! That's what you are! Another monster! As your lover!”

At first, the outrageous screams caught Fingolfin off balance and he could only hear him. The last accusation, however, ignited a fire in the chest of the Lord of Hithlum.

“Shut up!” ordered, flying off his handles. “You're sick, Finarfin. You see ghosts where there are _none_. Fëanor and I were not lovers _before our Father’s death_. Who else have you told that nonsense? Who did you tell your delusions about?”  
“Delusions?” In his alienation, Finarfin didn’t notice the distinction that Fingolfin made when referring to Fëanor. “Delusions, brother of mine? I saw you. I saw you wallowing like animals, you screaming like a beast while he mounted and impaled you ...”

Fingolfin dropped his hand against Finarfin's cheek, who fell to the floor, dragging the chair behind him.

“You did not see anything “ said Fingolfin, with an icy tone. “Because there was nothing to see. You were delirious: you have lost the notion of reality, Finarfin. You confuse your visions with real life. Tell me, did you see that Celebrimbor would hurt Finduilas? Is that why you oppose marriage?”  
“He's going to kill her! When his lover returns, he will sacrifice her to his master.”

Indis's eldest son squeezed his eyelids, finally understanding. With a sigh, he crouched down next to Finarfin.

“Little one”, he said with tenderness and compassion. “You're confused. You need to rest. Tell me, Arvo, have you been forcing the visions?”

A disoriented expression passed through the delicate features of Finwë's younger son.

“I have to be prepared. I had to know what my enemies planned, " he explained stubbornly.  
“What have you done? How…? How are you provoking them?”

Finarfin did not respond. However, at Fingolfin's insistent glance, his eyes involuntarily strayed to the table. The older elf followed the gesture to see the cup of tea. He stood up nimbly and took Finarfin's cup to smell it.  
The scent of jasmine masked an unpleasant smell that made Fingolfin's nose pucker. However, it was the flower that lay at the bottom of the cup that caught the attention of the prince: it reminded him of some plants used by Avarin shamans in their rituals.

“How many times a day do you take this?” demanded, turning again in front of his brother.

But while he investigated the tea, Finarfin had regained his composure. Already standing, he adjusted the folds of his tunic with his scissor-shaped fingers, paying special attention to placing each fold in the correct position. When Fingolfin questioned him, the king raised his face and contemplated him, impassive.

“I knew you were an animal, like Fëanáro, but I always thought you were cleverer than him” he said. “I will not tolerate your insubordination. You will be judged a traitor, Nolofinwë.”  
“Excuse me? Since when is betraying worrying about a brother?”  
“You raised your hand against your sovereign, Nolofinwë ...”  
“And I'll do it again until you behave, Arafinwë.” interrupted him, rudely.” Don’t test my patience: I don’t deal well with impatience, little brother. I guess you've heard the rumors.”

Again, a shadow of fear appeared in Finarfin's clear eyes.

“Are you threatening me?” he demanded, breathing hard.

Fingolfin studied him in silence, evoking the image of the laughing and affectionate child with whom he played hide-and-seek thousands of years ago: he had never felt as old as he was at that moment. Never the words 'in another life' have been more real.

“No “, answered frankly. “I’d never threaten you, Arvo. But I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

His tone seemed to touch the monarch's heart. For an instant, Finarfin seemed about to give in and throw himself into the arms of his older brother. However, immediately, the reserved and distant expression hardened his face back.

“How moving. If only it were true.”  
“Do you doubt my love?”  
“Your love?” Finarfin mocked. “I already know your love. You also said to _love_ Fëanáro, Anairë, that pervert of Maitimo ... but your affection always fades when your ambition comes into play. I know what you're looking for, Nolofinwë.”  
“Protect you. Take care of you. As I always should have done.”  
“My crown. You have come for my crown.”

Fingolfin did not blink, although a weight descended on his spirit: in a way, his younger brother was right. After all, a few days before he had agreed to take the throne if Finarfin ... Oh Mandos! He had to take the throne!  
The understanding knocked him out, causing him to lose Finarfin's words. It took him a few seconds to focus on what he was saying. 

"... it was too much to ask that you stay dead. Mandos should never free you: you are a danger. You load the seeds of insanity like your brother: who in his right mind would raise his hand against a Vala? Who would challenge the will of the Kings of Arda? You, like that monster you call 'brother', will drag us back to misfortune. I won’t allow it. I know you came back to usurp my throne; but you will not. You will not take away what belongs to me by right.”

“What right? You're just Noldóran because I followed Curufinwë to Middle-earth, " Fingolfin pointed out disdainfully. “You are right about something: yes, I am going to take the throne. As soon as the Council is informed that you are not in a position to govern us. You cannot continue to occupy the throne until you detoxify yourself.” 

He indicated the cup with an impotent gesture.

“I’ve seen what the use of those herbs can do. I’ve witnessed the alienation of numerous elves and humans as a result of their consumption. I will not allow you to fall into that abyss, Arvo, " he concluded sadly. 

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to go to the door with the intention of calling the maid back. He had to meet with his nephews and explain what was happening with Finarfin. They needed Estë's help before it was too late.  
The blow caused him to backtrack. More surprised than hurt, he turned on his heels to see Finarfin pounce on him, roaring like a beast. He barely had time to raise an arm and receive the attack.  
For a few minutes, Fingolfin just protected himself with his forearm raised before his face. Finarfin's hands sought his face with the viciousness of a mad-cat. While scratching and beating, Finarfin spat expletives and death threats.

“You will not take it from me! It's mine! My crown, you, murderer, thief! You're not going to take my crown! I'll flail you before! I will tear out your eyes! I'll cut off your hands for a thief! Monster! Bitch! You're nothing but Fëanáro’s whore!”

Fingolfin came back to himself with those screams. Finarfin's madness exceeded his expectations: he was totally out of control! 

With an impatient hiss, the prince grabbed one of Finarfin's hands with his and squeezed it until his fingers cracked. A shriek interrupted the insults and Finarfin writhed about himself, howling in pain. Using his superior strength and fighting training, Fingolfin spun him around the place and bent his arm behind his back, wrapping his other hand around Finarfin’s throat. A noise behind him made him turn his head to see the door open. Several people burst into the room. 

“My Lord!” Exclaimed Erestor, passing by the two golden armor guards. 

"Quiet," ordered Fingolfin. “I take care of this.”  
“But ... but, " stammered his old counselor," but, my lord, you are ... "  
“Kill him!” Finarfin shouted, who, twisting his neck, had managed to see the palace guards. “Kill the traitor! Off with his head!** He wants my crown! "

An uncomfortable silence fell on those present, who watched in astonishment as the Noldóran struggled in the firm hands of his brother to free himself. Finarfin's cries swelled the veins in his neck. Finally, Fingolfin made him turn around in front of him and hit him in the face with a head-butt. The king made a sound of shock and fell back, faint, while the blood sprouted in a thread of his nose. 

Fingolfin held his brother in his arms, holding him close to his chest. Around him, nobody moved. 

“Bring a healer”, he ordered in a quiet voice. “And look for my nephews. Now.”  
"Yes, my lord," the guards nodded in unison and saluted martially before running to follow their orders. 

Fingolfin looked up at Erestor: his old friend shook his head imperceptibly, his expression compassionate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Cried the Queen of Hearts XP


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Arandur: servant of the king, minister. In this context, it is used as a title and not as a name.  
> *Arciryas: royal ship.  
> *Isilendil: friend or lover of the moon.  
> * Indilwendë: lily maid.  
> *Loralassë: golden joy.  
> * aranya: my king.  
> *Herendil: friend of fortune.  
> *Saironwë: one which is wise; Turgon's maternal name in this story (in all my stories, actually)

“This is a violation of our laws! The behavior of Prince Nolofinwë should not be tolerated!”

Councilor Súrion's voice echoed above the murmur that filled the Council Chamber.

Erestor massaged his temple and hissed through his teeth, glaring furiously at the leader of the Valaduri. That repressed old elf had always brought out the worst of him: Erestor wondered how it was possible for a creature as wonderful as Anairë to be the daughter of such a viper.

“Grand Prince Fingolfin is the rightful heir of the Crown of Finwë”, proclaimed a young elf dressed in the gray and blue livery of the Ingolmor.  
“ Findárato Arafinwion is the Crown Prince”, replied one of Súrion’s followers, brandishing his fist as if he had a weapon.  
“Finarfin only received the throne because his older brothers went to the Exile!” someone shouted among the crowd on the lowest seats of the podium.  
“Fingolfin also participated in Alqualondë’s Kinslaying! Do we want to antagonize the Teleri once again?”

Rumors were revived at the elf's questioning with Councilor Súrion.

“Maybe you should worry less about the Teleri and more about your own people, Arciryas!” pointed a she-elf with silver hair braided with the characteristic red ribbons of the Kemendili.

A group of voices rose in favor of the female, forcing the valadur to retreat to almost hide behind the Counselor.

“Enough!”

Silence was made immediately. Fingolfin - sitting in an armchair to the left of the throne - looked up to walk around the audience. The assembly was divided according to the moral and ethical affiliations of the three main political groups among the Noldor; but divisions were observed within each group. Fingolfin held back the pout that threatened to curl his lips: this was like going back to Beleriand and trying to convince everyone to come together to fight against Morgoth. Who said he missed it?

"Anyone who saw us now, respectable Councilors, would doubt the much-vaunted Noldorin wisdom," he said, with disdain.  
"The Grand Prince takes our present situation lightly," said Súrion, narrowing his gray eyes.  
“The Grand Prince takes _lightly_ any situation that doesn’t involve Morgoth and his armies, _Arandur_ Súrion” the aforementioned half-smiled, with marked sarcasm. “However, the fact that all are here gathered denies your own words: it was this ... _unconcerned_ Grand Prince who called the Council to deal with this matter.”

A murmur of approval welcomed the statement of Fingolfin, who waited patiently for the ushers to order silence to continue.

“First, Minister, the laws have not been violated at any time. So far, Arafinwë Finwion is still the Noldóran ...”  
“Then, why is not he present?” demanded an elf of salmon-colored clothes trimmed in silver.  
"His Majesty is resting, my lord Isilendil," Herendil informed, advancing from the side of the throne. “His health has been resentful in recent times and finally, today it has collapsed.”  
“It is for that reason that I have summoned the Council”, Fingolfin took the word. “My brother is not in a position to continue assuming the responsibilities of governing our people.”

Even as he spoke, Fingolfin felt the bitter taste of _dejá vu_ rise to his throat.

“Who can confirm the current situation of High King Arafinwë? As far as we know, neither Herendil nor Prince Nolofinwë are healers.”  
“I can confirm it - announced an elf as she emerged from the group led by Erestor. “As Chief Healer of the Royal Palace, it is my duty and my privilege to take care of the health of our sovereign. Both the Councilor Súrion and the Councilor Isilendil know that the king has shown signs of fatigue and emotional instability for a long time already. In recent months, this has become more acute and today, our Noldóran suffered a crisis. At the moment, he is under the care of his daughter, the princess Artanis; but as a healer, I have the authority and knowledge to corroborate the judgment of Grand Prince Nolofinwë: our sovereign is not in a position to continue governing us. My decision is to be relieved of all responsibility until his health is restored.”

“Are you suggesting the Noldóran to be declared incompetent, Loralassë?”  
“I am _telling you_ what my responsibility as a healer demands of me. Legal determinations depend on the Council, Minister Isilendil.”

“Legal determinations are more than evident”, Erestor intervened, preventing Isilendil from asking another trick question. “If the healers consider the Noldóran's ability to be affected, our laws establish that in this situation the ruler will be freed from his functions and the crown will pass to the closest male relative.”

“That is, to the Crown Prince Findaráto”, pointed Arciryas.

“Prince Finrod -that is, Findaráto”, Angrod corrected himself hurriedly (until that moment he kept silence), “has signed a document by which he renounces his right to the throne. Copies of the document are being delivered to you”, he gestured to the servants who moved quickly between the groups to hand them coils with Finrod's seal.  
“That leaves your brother Artaresto as ... “

“As you will see, Arciryas, our signatures also appear in that document. In fact, with that letter, the House of Arafinwë is giving all the rights over the Noldorin crown and returning them to the House of Fingolfin - eh - of Nolofinwë.”

Fingolfin was as bewildered as the councilors: at what point did his nephews have written such a document? So advanced was the conspiracy that they had even prepared that support for his claim on the crown? 

“Let's be practical, gentlemen”, sighed Aegnor, separating from the column in which he remained supported to be placed next to his brother ; “none of us has the will or experience to govern. Of all the members of the House of Finwë, Grand Prince Fingolfin is the one who best meets the qualities to be our leader. He’s proved himself before. My brothers and I, the children of Finarfin, give our full support to our uncle and swear allegiance to him once again.”

It did not go unnoticed that Aegnor expressed himself in Sindarin, ignoring in flagrant fashion the law that prohibited the use of that language in the sessions of the Council.

“I would like to suggest that the circumstances of the aggravation of our sovereign’s health be deeply investigated”, said Isilendil before the youngest Councilors were launched to cheer on the new ruler. “It is still interesting that this situation has worsened after the visits, very close in time, of the once-prince Curufinwë and the Grand Prince Nolofinwë.”

Erestor clenched his fists on either side of his body as he took a step forward. 

"What are you suggesting, Isilendil?” demanded an especially corpulent elf, ahead of the old counselor of Hithlum and Rivendell .  
“I’m suggesting nothing, Lord of the Hammer of Wrath” replied the minister with a soft smile .  
“Well, I thought you did”, insisted Rog, to whose back Ecthelion and Glorfindel crossed the arms on the chest. “And I’ prefer that if you have something to say, say it for the clear and do not ' _suggest_ ' like a jealous female. Do you have any accusation to make against High King Nolofinwë?”  
“N-no ...”  
“Against Grand Prince Curufinwë then?”  
“I did not say ...”  
“Then keep quiet.”

A few sniggering giggles broke out in the groups of the Kemendili and the Ingolmor when Isilendil paled until his skin matched the silver lace of his elaborate attire. Only with great effort, Erestor did not burst out laughing, muttering to himself that some bullying balrogs’ slayers were convenient in any situation. 

"I appreciate the intervention of both, Rog, Isilendil," Fingolfin raised his voice, having witnessed the exchange as if it were a play. “For the peace of mind of our dear counselor, all the circumstances surrounding the deterioration of my younger brother's health will be exquisitely investigated, including the fact that Loralassë communicated the situation to our respected counselors and, however, they did not will take no action in this regard.”

Isilendil - which had already recovered his natural color - returned to pale alarmingly.

“On the other hand”, continued Fingolfin, calm; “this meeting has not concluded. But it is impossible to move forward while so many representatives of our people are missing. I see here no-one of the Aulendili. The deputies of Imladris, Lindon or Eregion are also not present. And, of course, no one is representing the Sindar, Laegrim and Avarin that live within the vicinity of our kingdom.”  
“None of those you mentioned are part of the Council, Grand ... Thy Majesty”, said Herendil in a voice.  
“That situation will be corrected immediately”, declared the new king, without wasting time. “That Ereinion, Elrond, Mahtan and Celebrimbor be summoned. As for my non-Noldorin subjects, informed them that tomorrow I will take a tour of their residential areas to find out their opinion and I hope that every 500 of them, a representative will be chosen to speak on their behalf as part of this Council.”

“Shouldn’t we proceed to the coronation ceremony before, my king?” suggested a female, with an uncertain tone. 

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. 

"My apologies, Lady Indilwendë. I think that will have to wait a bit: the crown used by my brother does not fit, besides not showing the colors of my house.”  
“Eh -we could use the crown that is kept in the Public Library, _aranya_ ”, Erestor suggested. “After all, it's your crown.”

Before Fingolfin could comment on it, two young enthusiasts ran out of the room to look for the garment. Erestor only bowed when he saw the king's murderous gaze. 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

“What have you done?”

The question, made between teeth, forced the newly crowned High King to turn to face the twinkling blue eyes of his firstborn. 

“Findekáno ... “ he said, lovingly, while extending a hand to touch him. 

With a gesture totally unrelated to his relaxed nature, Fingon moved away from his father's reach. His fists clenched at his sides. 

“Explain yourself”, he demanded without more emotion than anger reverberating in his words.  
“Fingon, remember that you are talking to the Noldóran”, said Maedhros in a low voice, trying to appease the spirit of his husband. 

Neither the redhead was very satisfied with the turn of events in just one day; but unlike his mate, he understood that even the king's children were obliged to respect the rules of protocol. 

Fingon barely glanced at the spectators at the scene - causing some to retreat cautiously. 

“Then, the Noldóran can fire his servants to have a private conversation with his heir.”

He had not finished suggesting it when Erestor bowed deeply before Fingolfin and rushed to drive everyone out of the room.

In the throne room were left only the family members who were in Tirion at the time of the coronation. Fingon stood before his father defiantly, backed by his husband, while Turgon stood aloof, with Elenwë on his arm. At the other end of the podium and grouped almost defensively, were the sons of Fëanor. Angrod, Aegnor and Orodreth were standing together near Findis, who was coming for his brother's coronation. Lalwen, on the other hand, paced from side to side with her arms crossed, refusing to look at Fingolfin. 

In the midst of all, several rungs below the over-decorated throne, Fingolfin remained. He still wore the simple clothes with which he left his house that morning; but the heavy royal cloak covered his shoulders and the crown - which until a few hours before was a historical relic - adorned his temples. 

Speaking fairly, nothing had changed at Fingolfin with the coronation. Everyone who had ever seen him knew that it was his natural state to look like the ‘king of the world’. Although in front of the Councilors, his majestic attitude had been accentuated, now - alone with his closest family - he was again the same one who lived with them and who thousands of years ago left Erestor with the word in his mouth to run to the meeting of the orc parties.

“My son”, Fingolfin began as soon as they were alone, expressing himself in the Sindarin that had almost become the favorite language of Fingon; “this has not been my decision ... “  
“And whose?” The prince barked, shying away once more from his father's hand. “Both you and I know that there is no elf, man or Ainu able to force you to do something you don’t want. What have you done, father? Why ...”  
“Because our people need me”, the king replied, bitterness seeping into his grave voice. “Our people need a king, a ruler who looks for them and who contains certain ambitious advisors who took advantage of the ... poor mental stability of Finarfin for - Gods, Fingon, don’t you trust me ?! Why else do you think I would choose to take the crown?”  
“I don’t know!” Fingon exploded and before Maedhros managed to retain him, he was jumping to meet his father. “I don’t know you anymore! You know what this decision will cause. You know what will happen when Fëanor knows that you- I thought you loved him!”

A sound of surprise came from where Turgon was. 

“Do you think I do not know?” Fingolfin snapped, his eyes blazing with pain and fury. “Do you think there has been another worry in my head since I made this decision? You - better than anyone else, you know how hard it is for me to get away from Curufinwë - How can you think that I ...”  
“I know you love him as you never loved anyone. I know he loves you. I know that you have sacrificed too much for 'our people'. Let another sacrifice themself now! Where is Finrod?” He turned to his cousins. “It's **his** damn crown! In Middle-earth he was anxious to govern his own lands, why don’t he take what belongs to him now?”  
“Alkarinhetar”, Maedhros called softly.

But Fingon furious was impossible to contain. 

“Your crown! **Yours** , children of Finarfin!” He continued accusing while pointing to the three blondes with his finger. “It must be you who picked up the shit your father left behind! "

" We know, "admitted Orodreth, gently, anticipating his brothers. 

Orodreth was the least bellicose of Finarfin's children. He was also the one who had inherited the delicate beauty of Finarfin and all the femininity that Galadriel seemed to have forgotten as she grew up.  
His curly hair was pulled back by a peacock-shaped pin and emerald earrings adorned his ears, framing his delicate face. Fingon narrowed his eyes, realizing that Orodreth stood in his way because he was aware that he always had a reluctance to fight a boy who looked like a girl. Although it was a facade: Orodreth was a skillful military and intrepid fighter, capable of embarrassing his two big brothers. At the same time. 

“We are aware of the sacrifice we demand from our uncle, cousin Fingon. Believe me when I say that I wish there were another way, another solution; but you - Almost no one is aware of how broken my father's mental health is. In recent times, his visions have been superimposed on everyday life until he wasn’t able to differentiate them. We believe ... "He glanced in Fingolfin's direction," our king thinks that my father may have been using drugs to provoke visions, which has out of control his gift beyond what any of us is capable of fixing. He cannot continue to govern us: the Noldor don’t need an unbalanced mentally and emotionally king.”  
“But a madman suits them very well. Or have you forgotten how they called my father in Middle Earth?”  
“Only after his death and ...” Orodreth blushed visibly as he realized what he had just recognized in the High King's presence. “Your father has the firm will that our people need now, Fingon. Let's be honest: my brothers and I make very poor rulers. No one will accept a Fëanorion as a sovereign ...”

“Thank you, cousin: you warm my heart.”  
“Whenever you want, Curufin”, retorted Orodreth, mordacious and returned to focus on Fingon. “Our people is going through difficult times. And not just the Noldor. The Sindarin who were once our subjects have suffered: if they maintain the affiliation to our houses, they are discriminated against by our laws; if they are subordinated to Thingol, they are discriminated against for having 'betrayed' their legitimate sovereign in Beleriand. The Avarin and the Laegrim have almost no rights under our current legal system. You yourself have tried to face that absurdity on numerous occasions! Those sindar, avarin, laegrim ... don’t know more than a righteous king. Only one house they have seen reign granting them equal opportunities that the Noldor: the House of Fingolfin. Your father is our only option to reunify our people. Of all Clans.”

“We can’t forget the tense diplomatic situation with Thranduil and Eärwen”, said Findis gently.  
“What…?” began to ask Maedhros .  
“Finarfin -rather Súrion and his acolytes” , corrected the eldest daughter of Indis, expressing herself in Sindarin with complete ease, “have been denying Thranduil access to sources of running water for ten years. Since Thranduil separated from Thingol when he refused to recognize his marriage to a Silvan she-elf, the subjects of Thranduil had to choose new lands to live on. However, by then, almost all of the territory had been divided between the Avarin independent tribes and the Laegrim clans of Lenwë and Denethor, which caused that Thranduil should resort to his kinship with Olwë so that he could negotiate a piece of land with our king.”  
“Greenwood”, Maedhros nodded. “But I do not understand ...”

“The treaty was very specific; but both Olwë (who acted as an intermediary) and Thranduil only knew of the trap when it was too late: the lands contained between the rivers were delivered to them; but not the rivers.”

“Fuck”, cursed Amras and Amrod at the same time.

“That was Isilendil's idea”, said Lalwen, with a crooked smile. “That nightingale is too smart for good luck.”

“The fact is that Thranduil and his people cannot use the water of the rivers unless they pay a tax. In recent years, the King of Greenwood has tried to negotiate on several occasions with Finarfin; but, he always hit the barrier of counselors on his way. I guess everyone has heard of the bad character of Thranduil ...” sighed Findis.

“Riiiiiing!” exclaimed one of the twins, imitating a bell.  
“Noldo!” announced his brother, raising a thumb.  
“There is not a drop of Noldorin blood in the King Deer”, raised an eyebrow Curufin.  
“But he could have it.”  
“Judging by his character.”  
“I like him”, Caranthir said. “He’s only defending the welfare of his people. And those two bastards deserve to have their asses kicked.”

“Which is why we need Fingolfin on the throne. Thank you, " Orodreth interjected, resuming his task of sweetening Fingon. “Can you imagine any of us kicking Súrion and Isilendil's ass? Legally, I mean.”  
“No”, said Fingon.  
“There is also the fact that no one, not even Valar themselves, would dare to question Fingolfin's right to occupy the throne”, added Aegnor. “You know: he's the badass who challenged a god and left him lame. I've seen Tulkas lean in front of my uncle.”  
“You remember that I'm still here, right?”

All eyes focused on the High King, who was pointing at himself moving both hands up and down .

“It’s impossible not to notice, Nolvo” said Lalwen. “You are using the Mindon Eldaliéva in your head.”  
“Haha, Lalwen.”  
“You need another crown”, said Curufin to his back.  
“Oh, I hadn't thought about it! It was Erestor who suggested that we use this thing for the coronation. There was a rush, you know?”  
“You can use one of Gil's circlets”, said Fingon reluctantly. "They are less -majestic than that monstrosity; but lighter.”  
“Thank you! Finally someone in this room says something that is worth listening to. Now, does anyone know when the hell Elrond will arrive? I sent for him since noon.”  
“Gil went in his search to help him convince Celebrimbor to come. Why is Elrond so urgent?”

“Because he is the only one capable of dealing with Thranduil”, Maglor informed, calmly. “In their own way, they are good friends. And Elrond’s children are close to Légolas, the eldest son of Thranduil.”  
“It would be complicated to be close to the youngest children, when they are 42 and 21 years old respectively ,“ one of the twins raised an eyebrow.  
“They are close to Thranduil's wife”, intervened the other twin.  
“I heard that she used to be a friend of Légolas and the children of Elrond before she became the queen of Greenwood.”

Fingolfin ignored the Fëanorion's talk to approach Fingon.

“Are we fine?” he asked in a low voice.  
“No”, denied his firstborn, stubbornly. “We are not. I'm not fine because I know you're not. But you have my support.”  
“I never doubted that.”  
"I know," Fingon admitted, lowering his eyes to the covered-in-unadorned-blue-silk chest and extending a hand, rested it on his father's heart. “I hate you doing this. I hate you doing this to yourself. And Fëanor will not be happy at all.”  
“Me neither. I just hope he can ... “  
“Understand?” Fingon raised an eyebrow, sarcastic. “When has your brother stopped to understand something? It's going to be a terrible fight - and you know it. I just hope that you manage to overcome it one day.”  
“One day not too far away, Fingon. I'm not going to give my eternity to this crown.”  
“I hope you're not thinking about passing it on to me ... because it would be better for you to auction it in the public square.”  
“I know who would pay a lot for it”, Maedhros intruded in the conversation. “A certain counselor ...”

For a moment, they continued talking without worrying about the problems (at least in appearance) until Findis pointed out that it had been a long journey and it was time for some to return home and others to settle into their new home. Fingolfin said goodbye to Fingon and Maedhros with annoyance, ordering his older nephew to convey to Fëanor his need to see him as soon as he returned home, since that afternoon he had been informed that Míriel's son was in Formenos, setting up a forge with the Aulendili.  
Only when everyone had left, Fingolfin noticed that his youngest son was still in the room, despite the fact that the king was sure that he had seen his daughter-in-law talking with Lalwen and Caranthir.  
Unlike Fingon, Turgon's expression conveyed nothing. As tall as his father and with his ability to reconcile his emotions, reading the former king of Gondolin was a difficult task. However, Fingolfin had been ahead of him for years and had seen him grow. At a glance, the king read the displeasure on his son's tense shoulders, in the way his mouth barely twisted at the right corner, on the left eyebrow slightly raised. 

"Speak," Fingolfin ordered dryly. 

Since Turgon's reaction to Idril's marriage to Lómion, relations between father and son had become quite cold. 

“What could I say?” Turgon shrugged. “You are High King. Once again.”  
“I am aware of it: it is at my temples that the crown rests, Saironwë.”

A slight tremor stirred theprince's pale lips, as if he contained the words before the paternal sarcasm. 

“You duped us all. Once again.”  
“How do you say?”  
“I should have suspected it.” A smile half-opened his mouth. “It is not the first time that you play the role of disinterested prince. I saw you do it before: in this same room, in Mithrim _ I congratulate you: you have a unique ability to take power without seeming to crave it.”  
“Are you accusing me of something ... son?”  
“No! Free me the Valar to accuse the Noldóran of being a double morality’s creature, which pretends not to have ambitions while waiting for the right moment to put his hands on the crown. Since when did you plan it? Was that why you approached Fëanáro? To have him on your part when you claim the throne? You cannot risk a revolt against you this time. I understand and even admire your talent for these matters; but, did you have to get so far? Seducing him seems something -extreme. Even for you.”

Fingolfin did not move. He blinked slowly (eyelids descending in a sensual gesture that cast shadows on his cheekbones before rising to reveal the blue eyes shining as if they contained starfire) and loosened the hands he had closed at his sides.

“Remember when Idril said she would marry Maeglin and you almost publicly repudiated her?” asked softly. 

Turgon frowned. 

“I do not see what it has to do ...”  
“If you open your mouth again, I'm going to give you the beating I did not give you that day.”

The young elf's face changed to a grimace of fear: he did not doubt his father's words. Fingolfin was not violent by nature; but his anger was something that was best avoided.

“For telling the truth?” He spat, recovering his courage, after a few seconds.  
“The only truth is that you know that you have lost your chance to gain power for yourself. From this moment, your elitist gondolindhrim party disappears. I do not want to hear about the 'Lords of Gondolin' again.”  
“You cannot ...”  
“I'm the fucking High King, Turukáno! I can do whatever I want! You are nothing. You didn’t do anything to deserve the pedestal on which you have climbed by yourself. There are among your former vassals people who are worth keeping by my side; but you and your lapdogs are not theirs. There will not be a hidden city for you this time, my son. Like all the Noldor, you are my subject and you are obliged to obey me. Dissolve your snobbery party or you will end up living in Tol Eressëa, far from the power you so long for. You and your Penlod, Galdor, Egalmoth ... I don’t need them: I have enough subjects with enough will and talent to serve our people well.”  
“You have no right ...”  
“Get out”, he interrupted coldly. “This audience has concluded ... Lord Turgon.”

Turgon opened his mouth and closed it again. Taking a step forward, he prepared to continue the discussion when the door opened and Erestor entered, accompanied by another elf. 

"Ah, Majesty," said the counselor.” I thought you were alone.”  
"Lord Turgon is already leaving," said Fingolfin dismissively. 

When his son, gritting his teeth, headed for the door, he stopped him once more. 

“And - Turgon? I hope that your wife meets Idril when the moment of birth arrives. It is time for the girl to have her mother at her side in this moment of happiness: nobody has the right to prevent it.”

Turgon did not even manage to modulate a complaint. Hurriedly, he left the room, ignoring Erestor's companion, who was about to greet him. 

Fingolfin pretended not to notice the gesture made by his son and with both hands outstretched, he advanced towards the newcomer to receive him with a hug.

“Elrond!” he greeted with joy . “Finally someone to trust to fix this disaster.”  
“Sir ...” said the Half-elf, not knowing where to put his hands when Fingolfin wrapped him in his arms.  
“I hate be called 'sir' ”, sighed the king.  
“I feel hurt, Your Majesty”, Erestor pointed out at that moment. “Am I not trustworthy? "  
" No, "Fingolfin denied dryly. “And send someone to find me one of Gil's circlets before my neck breaks because of your idea of crowning me with this crap.”  
“I still feel hurt”, insisted the counselor, turning around.  
“Thank Mandos because I don’t force you to wear the crown. Now, dear boy, let's talk about work. I know it is late; but the faster we fix all this mess, the sooner I can give the crown to another and return to my house by the lake. But first, how is the beautiful Celebrían? I hope that less and less like her mother.”  
“In fact, very similar to her grandmother.”  
“Ah! You are a lucky male: Eärwen is a wonderful creature. Luckily, genetics helps us from time to time.”


	25. Chapter 25

Hours.

Fingolfin observed the mechanical device on top of a marble pillar with gold veins: it was one of the inventions that the last elves brought to Valinor when leaving Middle-earth. A clock. Fingolfin had no idea when humans had invented such an artifact; but it seemed something that Fëanor would think of - if he had lived in Beleriand long enough to see the sun and the moon come out.

Elves had never needed artifacts to help them measure the passage of time: their own life linked to Arda's life gave them a deep understanding of natural cycles. But times changed, the elves grew older and Arda seemed increasingly distant from what She once was. Before, the passage of time did not matter: they had all eternity; now, did eternity exist?

The clock - a beautiful handicraft that represented the seasons in its box through reliefs - had been brought by Erestor to the hall that now occupied the king with the Councilors. For hours.  
Fingolfin was beginning to loathe the device that reminded him with every movement of its hands that he’d been locked in that room for ten hours with the idiots who almost destroyed the Noldor. And Finarfin’s mind.

The High King had no doubt that Súrion and Isilendil were behind Finarfin's dependence on hallucinogenic herbs to provoke visions. However, without proof in his hands to accuse them, he could not take any action.

At that time, Isilendil exposed with great detail the impossibility of expanding the housing fund for the laegrim who lived in the 22nd District of Tirion. Fingolfin thought about how easy it would be to get up, go to the Counselor and silence him with a slap.

“Let see if I understand, Isilendil”, he interrupted, obviating the titles, which earned him a sidelong glance from several counselors; “are you saying that it’s impossible to plant more trees? Because, in essence, that's the housing fund that the laegrim request. They build their dwellings on platforms in the treetops and if anything should abound in Aman, it's forests. So let me ask again: are you saying we cannot plant more trees?”  
“Sir ... Majesty ... the forests do not ... do not grow from one day to the next.”  
“And the laegrim aren’t asking for more housing for two weeks from now: they are foreseeing the increase of their population, which seems to me foresighted and wonderful because there are not many young people or infants among our people. Besides, " he said before Isilendil could comment, "as I see in this report that you have so kindly presented to us, it is the third time in a hundred years that the Laegrim have submitted this request to our efficient Council. If it had been done since the first time, at this point we would have enough rainforest to shelter tens of thousands of laegrim. Am I wrong, my lady Ailinel?”  
“On the contrary, Your Majesty”, nodded the aforementioned, standing up while making a bow. “In fact, the Kemendili express our willingness to use our modest knowledge to favor the growth of trees, in order to accelerate the response to the requirement of the laiquendi.”

Fingolfin made a gesture of thanks to the female and turned to Isilendil, waiting for his reply.

“My lord, the use of - our laws prohibit the use of - tricks used by Kemendili”, explained the Counselor with an expression of amazement. “I thought you were aware.”  
“Aware?” Fingolfin repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Why should I be aware of a law that discriminates against a third of our population? How, in my father's name, was that law passed when it is supposed to be put to a vote?”  
“Eh – we no longer ...”  
“We no longer vote in the Council?” Fingolfin finished for Arciryas, who had stood up to support his friend.  
“Indeed, Majesty”, replied Mahtan, raising his voice for the first time since the session began.  
“Ah, Master Mahtan, for a moment I came to think that you had fallen asleep with so much peroration”, the king sighed, causing the craftsman to put on the color of his beard by holding his laughter. “I know you are more action-elf than speech. I suppose that was one of the reasons why the Aulendili stopped attending the Council sessions.”  
“Among others, my lord”, nodded Nerdanel's father.  
“ I have to pay a visit to Hyellemaitë. It's been millennia since I tasted her stew venison.”  
“It will be a pleasure to have you back at home”, admitted Mahtan, recalling why Fingolfin had always been the one who won everyone’s acceptance while Fëanor caused more fear than affection.  
“Now, going back to the topic that we were dealing with: if there is no voting in the Council, why have you made me lose the whole day locked up in this room?”

An uncomfortable silence answered his question . Fingolfin fixed his eyes on Isilendil and Súrion, who had insisted that despite the change of government, life in Tirion should continue as before - that is, with long sessions of the Council to solve problems with words. 

“Majesty ... “ Súrion took word, standing up.  
“I did not give you the word, Minister Súrion.” interrupted the king. “And what you are going to say doesn’t interest me. Since Isilendil has presented his report- and has not convinced me of his reasons, I am releasing him from the faculties that were granted him to deal with the laegrim. From this moment, Lady Ailinel will be at the head of the committee that will attend the requests of our Laegrim population, until they choose their representative. Master Calimmacil will support you in the study and planning of the works. Within three weeks I hope to see progress in securing future abodes for our Laegrim subjects.”

Both counselors mentioned - the kemendil who spoke before and a young member of the Ingolmor - nodded respectfully before sitting down again.

“Continuing with you, Master Mahtan ...”  
“Majesty, it is against the laws to deprive a Councilor of his faculties for ...”  
“Súrion, you speak again without being granted the word”, Fingolfin pointed, raising an eyebrow. “However, to answer your objection, you just told me that real decisions are not put to a vote in the Council. Please, Erestor, do you confirm what I just said? "  
" Yes, _aranya_ , "replied the elf, standing up with a thick book in his hands. 

Until that moment, Erestor had been sitting in a low chair almost hidden behind Fingolfin's throne, taking notes in a notebook with religious promptitude. When the king spoke to him, he removed the book from under the chair, as if he had been waiting for it to be asked and looked for one of the tapes that marked different pages. 

“Here it is, Aran Meletyalda “, said while putting the chosen page before the eyes of the sovereign. “According to a decree approved by this same Council five thousand two hundred and seventy two years ago, the High King has the authority to issue decrees and edicts without subjecting them to a vote among the Counselors, as always as his decisions are protected by his obligation to protect and guarantee the welfare of his subjects.”  
“And, who decides if they are covered or not by that obligation?”  
“Eh- it does not specify it, Majesty”, made a contrite pout Erestor and Fingolfin could have kicked him in the shin at seen his hypocritical remorse.  
“That is, I decide. In other words, it is my decision all the time.”  
“That's right, _aran vuin_ ”.  
“All right. Then, as I said before Minister Súrion so worriedly interrupted me- Master Mahtan, I am aware that mineral supplies have decreased markedly in the last thousand years. I will ask this question by pure process: has any study been carried out?”  
“Several, my lord. This Council has been informed that the active mines in northern Tirion are almost exhausted. The only productive mines are the two belonging to Prince Fëanor, which have remained unexploited during all this time. Both have enough resources to provide our artisans and metallurgists with raw materials for another two thousand years, if properly exploited.”  
“What does that mean exactly? Remember that I was never a miner, Mahtan.”  
“I mean that if we have the equipment and the workforce, we can take advantage of the potential of these mines while exploring still virgin lands.”  
“Two questions: why is not workforce available? And, why are not they exploring the virgin lands?”  
“High King Arafinwë forbade the support of the trai ... “ 

Arciryas almost swallowed his tongue when the king's gaze fell on him. 

“Even being tempted to send you to jail in this moment, Arciryas”; Fingolfin declared with gentleness after a few minutes of heavy silence, “I can even understand that decision of my brother. Especially, in his state of mental disturbance. But what I don’t understand is why they are not looking for new reefs to explode, when the Noldorin economy depends on 80 percent of mining.”  
“Unexplored lands are under the jurisdiction of the Kemendili and some Valaduri.”

Now Fingolfin turned in the direction of the elves who wore red ribbons braided in their long hair. 

“Sire ...” Ailinel began to speak.  
“I have always felt a deep respect for Kemendili’s beliefs, _Massanië_ Ailinel”, declared the Highking, gently, granting the female the highest title given to the female elves. “I understand your insistence on conserving your ancestral forests and shelters, especially after they were so badly damaged by of Morgoth and Ungoliant’s actions in the past. However, my lady, I do not accept that anyone in this Council puts their personal interests above the welfare of our people. _Your people_ , my lady, or are the Noldor so divided that they are not even able to see beyond their noses?”

Despite being one of the Unbegotten and having made the Great Journey with Finwë, the female blushed at the disappointed look of the High King, who without further ado, turned to Mahtan.

“Master Mahtan, you have the Crown’s authorization so that the lands under the jurisdiction of the Kemendili are explored. To prevent ritual forests from being damaged for no reason, Lady Carnimirië ...”  
“Impossible!” some Valaduri shouted, standing up.  
“Lady Carnimirië”, continued Fingolfin, raising his voice a few octaves, “ will advise you during the exploration and Master Meneldil of the Ingolmor will be the neutral observer of this task.”

Both Mahtan and the mentioned Ingolmo and lady Ailinel nodded at the royal decision; but Isilendil stepped forward, his face red with anger. 

"Majesty, you cannot be serious," he demanded. “Carnimirië - she - he - cannot give - is a ...”  
“I think the word you are looking for is transsexual, Isilendil”, raised an eyebrow the king and before the face of fright of the Counselor, several of the young people burst into laughter. ”She is transsexual. But I don’t see how that affects her reputation as one of the most powerful Kemendili Singers or her integrity to entrust her with a task of such importance. Lady Ailinel, the highest representative of the Kemendilion party in this Council, has not objected to Lady Carnimirië's ability to respond to the demands of the work. Lady Ailinel?”  
“I agree with the election of Your Majesty. Lady Carnimirië is one of our most renowned singers and knows the ritual forests better than myself. In addition, the nature of her _fëa_ gives her an affinity with the mineral veins of the earth that many of our brothers and sisters lack: she is the elf indicated to assist Master Mahtan.”  
“Mahtan? Do you have something to object about?” asked the king.  
“I have known Carnimirië since he was born, majesty”, Nerdanel's father shrugged. “I have witnessed her abilities and her power. I trust her good judgment. And my apprentices have no problem working side by side with her.”  
“Your objection is out of place, Isilendil. Let's move on ...”

“Majesty, it is forbidden for those who go against nature to be considered worthy of trust. Our people ...”  
“Do you realize that you interrupted me three times this afternoon, Súrion?” Fingolfin frowned. “Another less patient king would begin to take it personally. Now, as I recall from my long and hard years of study with Rúmil, the elves give more importance to their fëa than to their hroa, which leads me to ask, against what nature is Carnimirië exactly? Her fëa is feminine, whatever her body says, therefore, lady Carnimirië is a female. More importantly, if they serves our people well: why should it affect what they do with their body? What anyone does with their body. Before anyone thinks of using the card of Morgoth's influence, I remind you that Lady Carnimirië never left Aman: she has been as exposed to Morgoth’s darkness as all present. That said, who are the Valaduri whose lands have not been explored?”  
“Lord Arciryas, Lady Almiel and Lord Minalcar”, Erestor enumerated, consulting the notebook in which he took notes.

At that moment, it was clear to those present that the High King had been playing with them most of the time: from before that session, he had the answers he asked for or he was certain that his secretary would provide them diligently. Any attempt to deceive or divert attention would have been in vain. Too late the Councilors remembered that the elf sitting on the throne had already been king of Tirion before. 

“I will not even analyze the reasons why the lands of those owners have not been explored in search of deposits - In fact, I clearly remember that the lands belonging to Lady Almiel were visited by my brother and me in my childhood and, if memory fails me not, there is a rich vein of copper a few kilometers from that lady's mansion: we found it on our first excursion together. Lord Rog of the House of the Hammer of Wrath will be responsible for the exploration of those lands. Erestor, have them tell him tonight. And that the landlords be notified that any attempt to oppose or hinder the explorations and subsequent exploitations of the deposits found will be considered contempt of the Crown and will be punished with the expropriation of the lands. Once the search for new sites has been concluded, let's move on to ...”  
Fingolfin stopped when he saw Herendil at the entrance to the room. When the usher noticed that the king had seen him, he advanced among the circle to make a deep bow before the throne and with an expressionless voice, announced: 

“The results that Your Majesty expected are here. Should I give them to you now? Or wait to finish the session to review them?”  
“Give them to me. That matter is much more important right now.”

Fingolfin took the parchment that Herendil handed him and broke the seal to read the paragraphs in print. His brow furrowed slightly, causing the already intrigued Councilors to stir restlessly in their seats. 

"This session is over," said the monarch, rolling up the parchment again. “You can withdraw.”  
“Majesty, there are still several issues that require ...”  
“This session has concluded, Lord Arciryas; for your peace of mind, the remaining issues will be dealt with tomorrow in the first hour. When the Sindarin representatives join us. You can retire. Only Súrion and Isilendil will stay here: we have an interesting question to discuss. Goodnight.”

After that, no one else dared to speak and quickly, all the Councilors moved out of the room, leaving behind only the two mentioned Valaduri. Erestor, suspecting the subject the king intended to discuss, stood up to retreat. 

"Stay, Erestor. As my secretary, you will take note of this meeting. You too, Herendil. You are a neutral witness of this situation.”  
“A witness, Majesty?” raised a brow Súrion. “It seems that we are preparing to make a trial.”  
“If so, Súrion, would you have something to fear?”  
“No, sir. I have faithfully served my people and I have nothing to regret.”  
“All right. So, you won’t be surprised to know that in this document I have the confirmation that my brother Finarfin has been consuming stramonium to provoke visions of the future. This plant’s uncontrolled consumption caused him addiction, in addition to affecting his seer quality to the point that he confused the hallucinations with real visions. Currently, my brother is in the custody of Estë, in the Gardens of Lórien, after the detoxification period, which can last for years.”  
“We already heard that from your mouth, sir.” Frowned Isilendil .  
“Of course. And you also knew it from before because it was you two who were supporting that my brother consumed that plant.”

Both Councilors were silent before the king's affirmation. Fingolfin had to admit that the two had guts because, at no time showed fear after being accused. However, they did not deny Fingolfin's words either, as if they were thinking how to react. 

"That is a very serious accusation- Majesty," Súrion replied sternly, as if scolding an unruly child. “I hope you have proof to talk that way. Otherwise, the good judgment of our Noldóran ...”  
“Have you ever met me for making statements that I can’t sustain, Súrion?” He stood up slowly. “From the beginning I knew which the herb that my brother was using was: its use is quite widespread among the avarin shamans and I have witnessed several rituals celebrated under the influence of the jimson. In small doses, hallucinogenic plants facilitate the connection with the gift of vision; but in excess, they cause dependence, delusions and alienation. In Finarfin’s case, we’ve seen the worst of these consequences ...”  
“You speak as if you had a wide knowledge about it, Majesty”, blinked Isilendil almost feminine, making clear his admiration. 

Fingolfin stared at him ... until the Counselor lowed his eyes, blushing.

“Unlike you, my esteemed Counselors, I have lived with our Avarin brothers for many years and I have learned from them. Well, I see that you have also learned something - or were you directly to the Valar to find out which herb you should use?”  
“Sir, you continue to accuse us without ...”  
“Súrion, I don’t know where you learned that bad habit of speaking when it’s not your turn; but I begin to suspect that you should suppress it. You were not so bold when I was regent of Tirion during the exile of my brother. So, to disprove your claim, which is so out of place, this document provides me with the evidence I expected.”  
“Evidence?” Isilendil repeated, paling.  
“Evidence that Silmarien, the healer in charge of personally attending the previous Noldóran, faithfully received the supply of stramonium from the gardens of our esteemed lady Almiel. Silmarien, moreover, has confessed that the use of stramonium was suggested by both of you during a private audience with the king and that she was in charge of explaining to my brother the benefits of consuming this plant to 'call the visions'. Like all drugs, you all knew that it would cause addiction; but, naturally, you rejected that possibility, assuring Finarfin that there had never been cases of drug dependence in our race. Your words, Lord Súrion, and I wonder if it was on purpose that you ignored the report presented by your acolyte Lady Almiel, after having 'experimented' with different herbs in some of his servants. Your crimes, Súrion and Isilendil, surpass the treason to the crown and the conspiracy to harm the health of my predecessor: you have attempted against our subjects ...”  
“They were moriquendi, for Varda Elentári’s sake!” exclaimed Isilendil. “They were simple moriquendi, inferior beings, who didn’t know the Light of the Trees. How could we imagine that a son of Finwë would suffer the same consequences? Well, we had to suppose it: after all, he’s not a pure noldo ...”

A moan interrupted the words of the Counselor, who stumbled backwards, bringing his hands to his face: in a matter of seconds, the blood drained between his fingers while he uttered drowned screams of pain. 

Fingolfin had jumped on him with feline agility, to stamp his fist on Isilendil’s face. Elves were nimble by definition, the Noldor more than the rest; but Fingolfin was also the type of elf warrior. In addition to being more muscular than the elven half, the king had trained since childhood - in which he discovered that although craftsmanship was not his thing, the fight seemed to be so. 

Only the fact that Isilendil fell backward, entangled in the skirts of his heavy tunic, prevented the Noldóran from attacking him again. 

“Injustice!” Surion shouted, with eyes shining with emotion. “The violent behavior of the king should not be tolerated! Our laws demand that those who do not have the emotional and mental equilibrium to ensure the welfare of the people are freed from their privileges. You said it!” He accused Fingolfin. “When attacking a Counselor, your judgment is in doubt and you will be ...”  
“What are you talking about, Lord Súrion?” Erestor intervened. “At what point did the High King attack a Counselor?”  
“How dare you?” Anairë's father shouted. “We all saw how he hit Isilendil ...”  
“I only saw Lord Isilendil stumble and fall over. He should wear lighter clothes.”  
“You have no shame, son of a servant!” Roared the Valadur and turned to the other elf present. “You saw it, Herendil.”  
“Of course I saw it, sir”, the usher nodded calmly. “I saw how the Councilor Isilendil was so frightened by the righteous accusations of the High King Nolofinwë that he wanted to flee and his feet became entangled with his tunic, causing him to fall and hit his face. If His Majesty allows it, I will call a healer to attend him and we can continue with the hearing.”

“Go in search of that healer, Herendil”, the king nodded while cleaning his knuckles with a handkerchief. “And tell Duilin to come in with the guards. Although I have enough evidence to condemn them and their accomplices, it has been a liberating experience to hear the confession of Isilendil. Erestor”, he continued, turning to his secretary, “prepares the document to definitively demote Lord Súrion and Lord Isilendil from their positions as Councilors and representatives of the Valaduri. Likewise, I want Rog to take possession of Lady Almiel's property until I decide what to do with it. I believe that giving them as compensation to the avarin who suffered her scientific anxieties is the most just thing.”

“You can’t!” Súrion cried, leaning forward like an animal ready to jump. “We were chosen by our people! You can’t dismiss us! We are the representatives of the Noldor who follow the straight path! You have no authority to ...”  
“You're wrong, Súrion. There is -an old proverb: who made the law, made the trap? Occasionally, the hunter falls into his own trap”, he smiled, coldly. “When you gave power to the High King to dictate laws without requiring the approval of the Council, you gave **me** the power to do what I please. According to your own designs (which you always hoped to use in your favor) the Noldor are governed by an authoritarian, non-parliamentary monarchy. And _this High King_ has decided that until the background of all the Counselors is duly revised, the Council will not be summoned again: too many traitors walk among the Noldor.”

At the moment when Fingolfin's icy voice was silent, the hall doors were opened and a contingent of soldiers entered, led by an elf with short curly hair and dressed like an archer. Black and white harnesses crossed over the purple vest.  
Erestor gestured in the direction of the two Councilors and the captain nodded with a slight bow before ordering the guards to take the proper ones. At that moment, Loralassë appeared on the threshold, accompanied by Herendil and another young woman dressed in the usual green habit of the healers. 

"Please, Majesty," the Chief Healer requested, "allow me to review Isilendil before he is brought to prison.”

“Go ahead”, accepted the king. “We don’t want our dear friend to feel that we deny him something as elementary as his health care. Erestor, I'll be in my rooms. I wait for you to prepare those edicts: they should be announced at dawn.”  
“Sire," said Herendil, cautiously, "Grand Prince Curufinwë has arrived at the palace a few minutes ago. He waits for Your Majesty in the Salon of ... Telperion.”  
“By Aulë! Where the hell is that now?” Fingolfin frowned.  
“Eh - the old Retreat Hall” half smiled the usher. 

Fingolfin made a gesture of understanding and left the room in a hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Hyellemaitë: glass's hands.  
> * Calimmacil: Bright-sword.  
> * Carnimirië: she that is adorned with red jewels.  
> * Ailinel: lake-woman.  
> * Massanië: "Breadgiver", used as a title of the highest woman among any Elvish people, since she had the keeping and gift of the coimas (lembas). Also simply translated "Lady".  
> * Almiel: daughter of blessedness.  
> * Minalcar: first glory.  
> * aranya: my king.  
> * Aran Meletyalda: Your Majesty, used as vocative.
> 
> *aran vuin: my king (sindarin).
> 
> **Special note: I tend to use expressions, words and names in Quenya and Sindarin - many of which I search on Internet; but almost all the names I invent them myself - if in some occasion I don't translate some, please, don't doubt in signaling it to me. Even if you don't understand my translations: English is not my native language and although I receive help from the comments that you leave me (thanks, xAnimalsBooksMythsx), I still have many doubts about it. Thank you all for reading this story ;)**


	26. Chapter 26

Fëanor was surprised by the note that Maedhros had left on his room’s desk. His eldest son informed him that he had gone with Fingon to visit the Sindarin districts and that he would be away for a week. Maedhros also notified him that he was awaited in the royal palace as soon as possible. Recalling the state of disturbance in which he left Finarfin the last time he saw him, Fëanor would have preferred not to meet his younger brother for a long time; but the possibility that Finarfin had changed his mind about the engagement of Celebrimbor and Finduilas was more than enough reason to attend the meeting.

He took the time just to take a bath, dress appropriately and go to the palace. Night had already fallen; but life in Tirion continued full of energy. The days governed by the course of Isil and Anar were much shorter than those previously measured by the flowering of the Trees, hence many elves continued their work at night without affecting their vitality. Unlike the Men and the Dwarves, the elves needed less of the body rest and the night was just another day for them. It was true that the majority - especially those who lived more with the other races in Middle-earth - kept the hourly norms learned from them and sought rest in the dark hours; but Fëanor was not one of them and he knew that in the royal palace these norms were not often followed.

When arriving at the Mindon Eldalieva - and as if they wanted to confirm his suppositions - Míriel’s son found a group of cars in which most of the Counselors retired. Some of the public dignitaries waited for their horses and others left in small groups, commenting enthusiastically on what happened during the session. Fëanor could not help but appreciate the joy that exuded the gestures of the young members of the Ingolmor or the fact that several Kemendili came to talk with some of the representatives not affiliated with any party. It did not surprise Fëanor not to see among those who were leaving to the leaders of the Valaduri, for it was well known to all that both counselors spent more time whispering in Finarfin's ears than attending their homes. What did surprise Fëanor, however, was to distinguish the red curls of Mahtan with lady Ailinel, who could pass for the tallest female in all Elvish history.

In the lobby, Fëanor encountered a group of white-tipped soldiers, led by one of the Lords of Gondolin, whom of course he recognized by the numerous images that appeared in the textbooks.

“Prince Curufinwë”, the usher called to see him almost by the door.  
“Eh ... I understand that the High King awaits me”, Fëanor informed, disconcerted by the reverence that the elf directed him when the Noldor usually turned their faces when he passed by.  
“That's right, Your Highness. Let young Hallawendë show you where to wait for His Majesty to finish the meeting.”

Fëanor nodded and let himself be guided by the elf through the corridors that never in his first life would he see so decorated. The young servant left him in a small room, furnished in white and silver. The wide windows were covered with curtains of a dark green hue and the back wall was decorated with an image of Telperion that ascended from the paved floor to the ceiling. A delicate glass teardrop lamp hung from the ceiling, replicating a single beam of light so that it bounced off the silver leaves of the tree on the wall.

The she-elf told the prince to get comfortable and asked permission to withdraw. Once alone, Fëanor told himself it was Finarfin's habit to make him wait every time he called him to the palace. To avoid thinking about his paranoid younger brother, Fëanor concentrated on counting the days left for Midwinter. He was going to ask Fingolfin to marry him: he already had the rings made. He had started working on them since he decided he would marry Fingolfin; but in those two weeks when his half-brother was absent, he had devoted hours to perfecting the jewels. As he said, the rings were not his forte and he knew Fingolfin's taste for elaborate jewelry, with exquisite details. Fëanor remembered how his brother frowned at the ostentatious garments or large gems; but he was ecstatic at a well-made filigree or hammered without imperfections. After weeks of work, finally Fëanor was satisfied with the rings he would present to his partner as an offer of marriage. It only remained to see how Fingolfin reacted to such a step.

Well, Fingolfin had always been an advocate of traditions and all those ceremonies made him sentimental (Fëanor remembered his excitement when he told him the details of Maedhros and Fingon's wedding). It would make him happy. Fingolfin, among the entire world, would understand why he took this step, why he asked him to be his companion until the end of time.  
The sound of the closing door forced him to realize that he had been playing with the glass for half an hour between his fingers without having taken a sip. He turned in the place and his heart jumped excited to see Fingolfin.

The son of Indis stopped as he took a few steps inside the room and opened his arms slightly. He did not have a chance to say a word before Fëanor left the glass on top of the credence and threw himself on him.  
Fingolfin forgot the world when Fëanor's hands sank into his hair and his warm mouth claimed his in a passionate kiss. Like every time, Fëanor's kisses stole his breath and his sanity. Instinctively, he clutched one hand to his half-brother’s shirt and with the other arm, he wrapped Fëanor’s waist.

Fëanor moaned, triumphant and pushed Fingolfin against the wall, pressing him with his body. He was aware of how much he had missed this elf; but it was not until this moment - in which he held him in his arms, in which he relived the glorious torture of his tongue and his teeth, in which he felt against his crotch the proof of reciprocated desire - that he understood _how much_ he had needed him. Frantically, one of his hands fumbled through Fingolfin's clothes (cursing under his breath because his brother decided to dress almost formally) until it slid against bare skin and touched hard flesh. 

Fingolfin moaned against the lips that clutched his. To this had he resigned for the good of the Noldor? Fuck the Noldor! He just wanted to get lost in Fëanor's kisses and caresses, to come moaning his name and hear him say that he loved him while filling him with his seed. Desperate, he corresponded to Fëanor's attentions by opening his clothes until his fist also closed on the rigid member of the other. Only short gasps escaped both as they adjusted the rhythm of the hands on the other's body. The rudeness of the caresses and the abstinence from the weeks of separation forced them to take very little time to explode in unison.

"I love you," Fëanor gasped, licking the drops of sweat between Fingolfin’s lower lip and chin.  
“And I love you”, answered Fingolfin, squeezing his eyelids and with a grunt of anger directed at himself, he moved away from his half-brother to dress up his clothes.  
“This is embarrassing”, laughed the elder. “Or it will be if Finarfin comes through that door now.”

Fingolfin, who had turned his back on him, took a deep breath. So Fëanor did not know: he had come immediately to the palace and since Mahtan had only known what had happened on arrival in Tirion, the news of Finarfin's deposition and Fingolfin's coronation had not reached Formenos. Maedhros had not been able to talk to his father before leaving for the outlying districts and Fingolfin suspected that his other nephews preferred that it was he who faced Fëanor's wrath by giving him the news. 

“Finarfin will not come”, he informed calmly.  
“Did not they inform him of my arrival?” Fëanor frowned. “I already suspected of such kindness from the ushers. He did not get unwell again, right?”he asked, worried.  
“Actually, he got so sick that he is not in the palace. Not in Tirion, in fact.”  
“Damn”, hissed the other. “When? I should have written to you as soon as I knew; but ...”  
“Curufinwë, I want you to know that, above all, I love you.”

Fëanor blinked, confused, at the seriousness in his confession. Despite the joy that Fingolfin's words produced, a dark weight settled in his chest. 

"Nolvo ..." 

"I love you," Fingolfin insisted, turning at last in front of him and Fëanor almost recoiled at the desperate glint in his blue eyes. “I love you like I've never loved anyone. I love you with all my soul, my flesh, my ... essence. I want to sleep with you every night. I want to be yours until there is no line that separates us into two souls. I want to lose myself in you until I forget my name. I want your kisses to wake me up, may your face be the last thing I see when I sleep and the first thing I see when I wake up. I want your caresses to be the only clothes I wear. I want to dress you with my kisses, with the marks of my teeth, with my smell - I want you to belong to me as I belong to you. I want- I love you, Curufinwë Fëanáro. You are everything I want in the universe.”

Fëanor had leaned against the wall, unable to hold on to his own legs. The world revolved around him like a merry-go-round. Fingolfin had told him that he loved him, had given him affectionate, compromising names; but this ... this was more than he ever expected. He knew his brother well enough to know he was stubborn, proud; but he also knew that Fingolfin was reserved in his emotions. Although no one doubted the love he had for his children and grandchildren, few saw Fingolfin giving public displays of affection. Such a passionate confession did not enter to Fëanor's hopes for their life together. 

“Nolvo ...” he said, blushing like a teenager; “am I supposed to pronounce my votes right now?” He tried to downplay his reaction. “I didn’t prepare anything for - You're wearing a diadem.” His silver eyes fell at last on the other's forehead. “Why are you wearing a diadem, Nolofinwë?”

The day before, finally, Fingolfin had received one of the tiaras of his grandson, being able to get rid of the heavy crown of Barad Eithel. The chosen garment was made of mithril and had the shape of two hands that joined in front, holding five ovals sapphires (the central one being the largest) that were slightly tilted so that the one in the middle would be between the eyebrows. 

How had it gone unnoticed? Fëanor wondered, as he repeated Fingolfin's words about Finarfin in his mind. 

_Finarfin outside the palace. Finarfin outside Tirion. Fingolfin in the palace. Fingolfin using a crown. Fingolfin ..._

“No”, he denied fiercely before the idea formed in his mind.  
“Yes.”

Fingolfin’s simple replica obscured his vision. Rage and despair roared inside him and for a second, he thought he could destroy whatever got in his way. 

“Why?” demanded with clenched fists. “Why, Nolofinwë?”  
“Because it's my duty. As a son of Finwë. As noldo. It's my duty to our people.”  
“You just said that you love me!” He roared, extending his hands in his direction. “You said - you said I was- you said you love me”, he repeated.  
The world seemed to collapse around him.  
“I love you”, insisted Fingolfin, imperturbable. “I did not lie to you. I didn’t overdo it. I love you. And that's why I'm sorry, Curufinwë. I said - I said that in Midwinter you would have my answer ...”  
“I have your answer now”, the older one barked.  
“It's not ...”  
“This is your answer, Nolofinwë! An excuse to reject me. An excuse to get me out of your life. You knew what you did when you took that crown. The High King of the Noldor will not sit next to the traitor who brought the curse upon them.”  
“This is not my answer to you, Curufinwë! What I said before ... that's my answer.”  
“Your false profession of love?” he mocked with anger.  
“My love for you seems false? Does it seem false when you possess me and when I give in to all your demands? Does it seem false when I surrender to you?”  
“Sex! It's what I'm good for, isn’t it? But not to share your dreams, your ambitions, your life with me. Why were not you honest with me?” he pleaded with eyes wiped with tears.  
“I am sincere! I don’t want this crown. It's _you_ I love.”  
“But it's that crown on which you closed your claws once more. Do you need power that much? Do you long to control the fate of others again?”  
“I do not want power!” Fingolfin roared. “I never wanted it. I'm doing this because it's necessary, because there was no one else to take the crown. Our people need help, Curufinwë. Our people ...”  
“Need you?” mocked again Fëanor. “Oh, you've always been so cocky. Or is that the lie you tell yourself to justify your thirst for power?”  
“Our people need **us** ” replied the king. “I need you to help me fix all this. The sooner we resolve this mess, the sooner we can ...”  
“Is this another of your teasing?” For a moment, anger had been controlled enough for him to be able to express himself sarcastically, with pride. “It's like when you said you did not want to impersonate me in Father's heart and then you claimed the throne.”

Pain cut through Fingolfin's chest like a knife. For a second, he could barely breathe; but immediately he straightened, imposing his greater stature to observe his half-brother from on high.

“I thought that we had overcome that infantile jealousy.”  
“I thought you had given up on your political tricks.”  
“Is this what it costs to destroy your faith in me, Fëanáro?” Fingolfin asked, unable to disguise any longer the suffering that Fëanor's doubts caused him. “A crown?”

He seemed sincere, Fëanor reflected, doubting his impressions, his memories, what he saw ... or thought he saw. Maybe Fingolfin did not want the crown. Maybe it was true that the situation demanded desperate measures. But what if it was not like that? Above all, why did it have to be Fingolfin who assumed the salvation of the Noldor? Finarfin had four sons, for Eru's sake! 

“It's the excuse you found to get away from me”, he accused, stubbornly.  
“By Eru’s balls! I'm not getting away from you! I'm not rejecting you, damn it!”

Before Fëanor answered, the king jumped to him and grabbed him by both sides of the face to force him to lean his forehead against his. 

"I'm asking you to have faith in me, Fëanáro," he said hoarsely, intimately. “I'm asking you to believe in me this time. My love for you is as true as the Sun and the Moon, as the stars illuminating the world, as the power of Eru. This crown ...” he growled scornfully; “this crown is nothing. It's just a detour in our way together ... a little halt!”  
“Give it away.”

Fingolfin turned to look at him in the eyes. 

“Fëanáro ...”  
“Give the crown. If you do not mind - if it doesn’t mean anything to you- hand over the crown.”  
“ To who?”  
“Whoever! It does not matter, right? You and I matter.” He watched him, panting. “Say it. Say it's you and me that matters. Say it's _me_ that matters to you, Nolofinwë.”  
“Curufinwë, I can’t give the crown to anyone. Not now. Not yet ...”  
“You will never give up that thing, right?”

The High King loosened the hands that held him when he heard the defeat in his voice. He backed up a few steps to meet Fëanor’s gaze and his heart clenched into a fist of ice as he watched the tears run down his half-brother’s cheeks.

“Curvo ...”  
“There will always be something for you to put ahead of me: your wife, your children, your aspirations ... your ambition ... your people. I always ... I've always been in the last place in your heart.”  
“Are you sure it has not always been the opposite?” Fingolfin hissed. “It was me you left behind. Over and over. Until I had to look for something to cling to continue. Something that replaced _you_ in my life: a wife, children, a career ... a throne ... a kingdom.“  
“I guess that sums it up, right? It's too late for us to try to rebuild our relationship.”  
"We're not rebuilding anything," barked Fingolfin, his eyes gleaming like stars. 

Fëanor could have backed off if he was not against the wall now. 

“Of course”, he let out his teeth and without waiting for another word from the king, left the room in a hurry. 

Fingolfin clenched his fists until his shoulders trembled with tension. Finally, he let out a howl of despair and collapsed on his knees, burying his face in his hands. 

He hated them. All of them. He hated everyone. Finarfin, Súrion, Isilendil, Erestor, Anairë, Eärwen ... their nephews ... the Noldor, the Sindar who had no rights, the Laegrim who did not have enough houses, the Avarin who did not even understand when they were discriminated against ... He hated everyone. And he hated himself for listening to them, for worrying about them, for not being more selfish ... for not throwing that damn diadem in the fires of hell and running after Fëanor.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

The blows resounded in the darkened gallery, shuddering the doors covered with mithril plates. In the next silence, the echo of the call traversed the corridors sparsely illuminated by blue lamps suspended in the void. As there was no response to the violent touches, they were repeated - on this occasion accompanied by a loud voice that demanded the presence of the Souls’ Keeper.

Fëanor hit the gate with the stone he held in his hand and screamed again.

“Námo!” he call. “Come out here! You won! You already got what you wanted! Now, get out, you fucking bastard!”

On sides of the two-leaf door, decorated with a hooded figure with open arms, stood a row of statues that acted as columns, holding the frieze representing a procession of silhouettes addressing the entrance. At the moment when Fëanor finished his first harangue, a fog fell away from the nearest statue to almost become embodied in the figure of an elf with extremely long ears and eyes without a pupil.

“What are you looking for here, you who is called 'spirit of fire'?” the creature asked in a remote voice.  
“Námo”, repeated Fëanor, panting. “I wanna see Námo, maia.”  
“The Souls’ Keeper has not business with you, you who walk among the living.”  
“A shit that he doesn’t have business with me! Tell him to come out and face me! I want him to tell me why the hell he keeps punishing me. Is it a vendetta?”  
“The Souls’ Keeper is not guided by worldly feelings to make his decisions, Eruhin. Go back to your home and do not call the Timeless Halls again.”  
“Don’t…!” he shouted when he saw that the misty figure disappeared again in the gray stone. “Don’t. You. Dare. Go away.” ordered between teeth. “I want to see that son of ... I will not leave until Námo answers me.”  
“You can wait until the end of Arda, noldo: time does not mean anything to us.”  
“However, I'm not willing for you to keep pounding on the door of my house.”

Fëanor turned around to face the being leaning on the doorjamb.

“Námo.”  
“My Lord…”  
“Retreat, Hiswerauko”, ordered the Vala and separated from the wall to approach the visitor. “What ails you, son of Míriel?” he asked with annoyance. “I thought I got rid of you a year ago.”

Fëanor looked at the god of death, frowning.

The best-known image of Judge was that of a broad cape that showed nothing of his face but his chin and his expressionless mouth. As the son of the first Noldóran and frequent guest of Valimar, Fëanor knew that it was not the favorite appearance of Námo; but during the millennia that he remained in his custody, he had seen this Vala wear many fána. Now, however, Fëanor could not help but ask:

“What the hell are you wearing?”  
“Something that does not blow your eyes, ungrateful child”, the god shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. “I asked what the hell you're doing here. Fingolfin doesn’t love you anymore?”

Pain returned so strong that the elf stepped back a few steps while hiding his face.

“Obviously, he wants more that damned crown”, he hissed, rabid.

A flash of lightning crossed the silver eyes of the Vala. A grimace pursed his blue-painted lips as he concentrated on something beyond the black flagstone path that led away from the doors.

“Fuck”, he mumbled. “I turn around for a second and you two turn Valinor upside down. Cannot I leave you alone for a few months?”  
“I had no idea you were worried about our welfare, oh generous Mandos.”

Namo raised an eyebrow adorned with three mithril pins.

“Not about yours, oh prepotent Fayanáro”, he replied sarcastically. “But I didn’t send Fingolfin out there so he would have to sort out his family's outrages. Or deal with your attacks of childhood jealousy.”  
“I'm not jealous. And I did not come for Fingolfin.”  
“Oh you didn’t?”  
“I came for me. You said my punishment was not over. I think that’s enough…”  
“When I said that?” Namo asked, scratching his chin.  
“Before releasing me. This - this is the greatest suffering you can cause me. No ...” He clenched his fist over his eyes. “That Nolofinwë choose the throne, once again ... this time ... it is the most I can bear. I don’t want…”  
“Don’t you want to continue living? Just because your brother asked you for a time out? Got damn! Fingolfin is really good in bed.” As Fëanor looked at him grimly, he hastened to add: “Forget I said that.”  
“Nolofinwë did not ask me for a 'time out'. He **chose to be High King** , knowing that in that case we could not -Wait! Did you know this was going to happen?”  
“Eh ... what part exactly? Fingolfin becoming king? Or the two of you in a torrid passion?”  
“Second -both! I mean ... how did you allow it? Does Manwë know?”  
“That Fingolfin is High King? At this moment, my brother must have notified him ... mhm ... I do not think he's very happy ... My brother, I mean: Finarfin is his favorite.”  
“Our relation! All of you know ... and have not intervened? Do not you care?”  
“ In fact, I'd love to understand what Fingolfin sees in you. I mean, he can have whoever he wants! And you - You're not the best option.”  
“Excuse me?” Fëanor indicated himself with a sweep of his hands.  
“You're gorgeous, I see” Námo raised his pierced eyebrow. “And you're a bastard. In addition to having problems of family abandonment. What the hell is wrong with you? Not everything revolves around you, Fëanáro!”  
“Says who cursed all my people for something I did.”

“I was pissed off.” He pouted. “Like ... **really** pissed off. And before you say it, I didn’t care about your _blessed_ stones. In fact, I did not care about the _blessed_ Trees except for the fact of providing light for our refuge. What fucked me enough was that no one would listen to me when I spoke. Like ... _'hey, I don’t think Melkor is really sorry'_ _'forget it, Námo; he is our brother and I am gonna give him the benefit of the doubt -for all those hours that we spend ... '_ ” He interrupted himself when noticing the intrigued glance of the noldo. “So! Fingolfin regained the throne of the Noldor: he delayed doing it. I may have lost a bet with Vairë: I bet it would not take twenty years.”  
“You could warn me”, said the elf bitterly.  
“Of what? Of your brother having ‘shiny- armor- knight syndrome’? The fact that he came to your defense after you threatened to kill him didn’t give you a clue? Or he challenging a god to duel? You know Fingolfin. I mean, if someone knows what lies behind that beautiful ice-face, it's you: you were his best friend. You are the closest person to his heart - actually, you’re the person who has taken over most of his heart. You knew this was going to happen ...”  
“Did I know? Did I know that he was going to leave me for the good of our people?”

“You see?” said Námo, in a triumphant tone. “You are advancing: 'your people' and 'the people of Fingolfin' are already one. Now clarify me something: at some point Fingolfin said he was giving up on you?”  
“N-no ... he said he loved me.”  
“Then, why did not you hear him?”  
“Because his words say one thing and his actions another! Like before.”

“Before ... you weren’t lovers, Fëanáro. And yes, since you ask, it was not difficult to see where the relationship between you two was going - even when you were still incorporeal. Fingolfin has everything you hate and everything you love in him. You are everything he admires and everything he hates. I've seen you work together: do you remember the project for the Arts Academy in which you tutorated him? Nienna cried with emotion ...” He made a face . “Nah, it doesn’t matter: my sister cries for any stupidity. Tulkas was excited: that is, Tulkas? He doesn’t even have the IQ to know how elves are made! And he was fascinated by what you and Fingolfin had built! **Together**. Correct me if I miss; but the world in which you are together is much better than the world where you are against each other. And I, personally, prefer the version of the story that doesn’t end with war and an excessive influx of souls to my home.”  
“I know that”, growled Fëanor. “But I cannot force him to love me like I love him.”

“Fëanor, what part of 'your brother is a damn hero' didn’t you understand? The Noldor don’t go through their best moment - **the elves** don’t go through their best moment. Our power has diminished: you know it. I was never in favor of arranging the world as our private garden and treating elves like our garden gnomes; but they never listen to me. Why would they do it? I'm just the goddamn god of fate and prophecy. My brothers have ruled Valinor with all their power and that has taken its toll. We no longer control the stations ... or the elven destinations. We are guardians- very exhausted guardians- and your peers have put their blind faith in us.”  
“What are you saying, Námo?”  
“I say that worse times can come.”  
“The ... Dagor Dagorath?”  
“The return of Melkor shouldn’t worry you. Still. But the end of Valinor as paradise should do. Elves need leaders, not puppets at the service of illusions. Fingolfin is one of those leaders. You could be another, although I can hardly admit it. You two, together, could guide your people in times to come. This time ... you could make history worth being sung. With a happy ending. A bachata”; he murmured thoughtfully.  
Fëanor shook his head, bewildered.  
"You mean ... that this- all this - is not part of your scheme to punish me?" 

Námo looked at him with disdain. 

"Do you really think I spend so much time thinking about you?" He asked. “I have work, for the Allfather! Like ... **a lot of work**! I didn’t design a scheme to punish you. I don’t have to bother: you do a good job punishing yourself. Stop seeing conspiracies and betrayals in the decisions that others make. Fingolfin didn’t want to hurt you by taking the crown. Did you wonder if he is not suffering? Did you even ask what happened to make him High King?”  
“Finarfin - he - No, I did not ask him”, he admitted. “I was ... **I'm** ... furious, disappointed ... I'm going crazy.”  
“Take a few days. Think calmly about what happened. Talk to your children ... Maedhros is very good for these things. And Caranthir! Curufin not so much. And Celegorm - Celegorm is not an option unless you're a porcupine with labor pains. Maglor ... artists are not usually good at listening. And then, try to talk to your brother.”

Fëanor watched him, hopeful.

“Is there ...?” He swallowed and continued, more firmly: “Is there hope for us? Will this ... work? "

Námo twisted his mouth.

" I'm not going to answer that. You have to discover it for yourself, Fëanor.”  
“What do you see the future for?”  
“To laugh before someone tells the joke. Go home, idiot, and don’t come back: my maiar are upset by the noise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Hallawendë: halla- tall; wendë: maid. Tall maid.  
> * Hiswerauko: hiswe: fog; rauko: demon; demon of fog.  
> * Fayanáro: archaic form of Fëanáro.  
> * Eruhin: Eru's child.


	27. Chapter 27

Fingolfin had forgotten this part of being king. He had forgotten that part of his job was to sit for hours listening to others elaborate on matters that they considered vital only because they were personally concerned. Like so many other unpleasant things in his life in Beleriand, Fingolfin had blocked the memory of public audiences. Although, on second thought, this was not at all like in Beleriand.

For starters, in Hithlum there were few Valaduri, especially after most of them slipped away with Turgon in the middle of the night. Second, the Kemendili who traveled to Middle-earth had a different conception of their relationship with nature. The Ingolmor, for their part, were more interested in developing engineering works and supporting arms production than in answering ‘existential questions’.

Fingolfin had never belonged to a specific party - unlike his brothers. Fëanor, for example, had begun being of the Aulendili, the most ... rational branch of the Valaduri; but when his dissension with almost everything the Valar considered 'adequate' became too evident, he was the initiator of the Ingolmor to end up founding his own party: _i Fëanáryalion_. Finarfin, during his youth, had been more inclined to the Ingolmor and then was influenced by the Telerin policy; but after the death of Finwë, the youngest of the brothers had turned completely towards the Valar. The daughters of Finwë and Indis had not leaned towards any political current either; but it was not expected of them either: unlike other females, who occupied prominent positions in their parties, the daughters of the king were only 'princesses' and nobody expected them to take care of anything other than jewels and dances. Fingolfin would have laughed if someone told his sisters that their obligation was simply to decorate; but, he remembered that he himself had not learned Lalwen’s value until they faced the Helcaraxë. Findis, on the other hand, was much more than one of the most dedicated Singers of the Noldor: her understanding of the real needs of people was greater than what Finwë himself ever showed.  
Fingolfin frowned: with complete justice, the crown of the Noldor remnants in Valinor must have been for Findis, Finwë's eldest child. However, the Noldorin law established that the crown would pass to the closest male blood relative, obviating the females - which was why Galadriel had not been able to claim the crown after the fall of Gil-galad and with Elrond's reluctance to claim the monarchy for himself, the Noldorin Exiles were left without a central ruler. Now, the most worrisome was why no one had proposed that the law be modified to include the female heirs in the line of succession: certainly, Galadriel would have been delighted.

The High King noticed that his secretary was slightly twisting his mouth and remembered that this was the signal for when he was abstracted from the Councils. With an effort, he returned to focus on the young elf's speech in front of him.

The boy was one of the youngest members of the cloister of the Lambegolmor and at that time, asked the monarch to revoke the law that prohibited the use and study of Avarin dialects. For half an hour, the young elf - whose cheeks threatened to burst with such redness - had explained why the Masters of Language felt offended because they were prevented from exercising what they existed for: the understanding of words.

Finally, the young elf remained silent and waited with his eyes on the floor for the king to speak. Fingolfin studied him, with interest: he was a typical noldo - almond gray eyes, hair like a crow's wing, broad shoulders, aquiline features ... and, even in his shyness, a proud air illuminated his expression. The king recalled that once - in another life - he had been in a similar situation, exposing before the Council the need to build a hydro-sanitary network that included the most peripheral districts of the city. Fëanor had helped him prepare his exhibition and for three weeks they had practiced until Fingolfin did not stutter like a calf.

As the Noldóran did not speak, the young elf looked up and the blush almost burst into flames when he met the king's nostalgic smile.

“His Majesty will reflect on the Lambegolmor's request”, Erestor took the word, coming forward to situate himself in the visual field of the dazed young man, “and he will communicate ...”  
“There is nothing to think about, Erestor”; the king interrupted. “I agree with the exposition of Master Parmaitë: the languages of our Avarin brothers must, and will, be studied for their knowledge and understanding among the Noldor. You can tell your classmates that the law that prohibits the use and study of the languages of our brothers of other clans will be repealed in a short time: it is one of my priorities like High King.”  
“Thank you very much, Majesty”; the young man hastened to say.  
“Not so fast, my young friend”, Fingolfin restrained him. “I also make you a news carrier not so pleasant for your cloister. The law that establishes the payment of a fee to access regular education will also be reviewed and, of course, that revision will result in a decrease in income for our study centers.”  
“Eh –I understand, Your Majesty, and no –'m not the best person to discuss –deal with this issue with Your Most Exalted Majesty; but maybe I should –I should tell you that those fees are what guarantee that schools have the means to teach.”  
“Certainly you are not the best person to deal with this subject”, the king agreed. “The mayor of the Academy will be summoned to participate in the review committee, chaired by Prince Caranthir Fëanorion. At that time, they will present all their arguments and they will be heard. You can retire, master Parmaitë.”

The young obeyed making caravans while he was walking away. 

Erestor approached the king to offer him a glass of water. 

"What is ‘Your Most Exalted Majesty' supposed to be doing?” he asked softly. “Are you going to repeal the entire legal system in the first week?”  
“Only the stupid parts, Erestor. How much left?”  
“You have work until late at night.”  
“Seriously? Do you want me to hear all the complaints and suggestions in a single day?”  
“What I want is for you to stop smiling at our young masters as if they were a reflection of your lost lover: at this point, half of Tirion's population will be in love of you for the weekend. That’s why I have prepared an agenda so tight that you do not have time to float in the past and self-pity.”  
“I'm not ...”  
“Fëanor will understand.”  
“You -you do not know him.”  
“And you neither. Your half-brother has changed.”  
“Does everyone know what is happening between us?”  
“Fëanor is ... easy enough to read: he’s always looking at you as if you were his most valuable treasure.”  
“Apparently, I am also easy to read”, he sighed.  
“N-no ... but we've known each other for a long time: I know what that frown means.”  
“I'm always frowning, Erestor.”  
“No, not always. Not when Fingon sings. Or when Idril is near ... when Gil remembers his childhood in Barad Eithel ... when Aredhel makes you swallow those horrible cakes she bakes ... when Maedhros laughs ... when Lalwen speaks as the lowest of the soldiers ... when Elrond speaks with a Fëanorian accent ... when Maeglin gave you that torque for the anniversary of your reincarnation ... when Fëanor is near –You were always frowning in Hithlum; but not now. Now you smile more. Before – before I came to believe that you didn’t know how to do it. But it was fine: I’d have preferred to see your scowl every day to the void left when the eagle brought the news.” He made a face that curled his mouth down. “News! Fingon and I already knew what had happened: we needed not an eagle to tell us why our hearts had gone empty.”  
“Erestor ...” Fingolfin called in a low voice. 

The secretary blinked as if waking from a dream and apalled, he noticed that his fingers absently traced the pattern embroidered on the fist of the king's robe. Instinctively, he closed his hand and took a step back.

“I'll pass the next applicant”, he announced efficiently. “We’ll stop to have a snack at noon and then continue with the reports of the health inspectors. It’s not an exciting subject; but at least I know you won’t smile at Lord Istimaráto: that elf is ... horrible, if you can say that about an elf.”  
"As you wish," the king shook his head.  
"Of course," Eresor chuckled, still uncomfortable with his previous slip. 

However, the secretary had not had the opportunity to call the usher when the latter entered the room.

“Majesty”, Herendil informed, with his usual stony expression; “a delegation of avarin representatives has arrived at the palace. They request to be received by the High King of Tirion.”  
“Avarin representatives?” Erestor repeated. “Weren’t they told that the king would make a tour of their settlements in upcoming days?”  
“They were informed. In addition, a Sindarin delegation, an ambassador of the High Queen Eärwen and –a representative of the High King Elu Thingol have arrived. They are …” For the first time Herendil pouted; “They are discussing who should be treated first.”  
“Well, the avarin came before, right?” Fingolfin pointed out with logic.  
"With your permission, _aranya_ ," Erestor murmured, "it would be convenient to receive the ambassador of Queen Eärwen and the representative of Thingol.”  
“ ’Cause one is my ally and the other ... I don’t know what he is?” the king raised an eyebrow. ”The avarin arrived before.”  
“Did I command to enter the Avarin delegation?” Herendil ventured.  
“The avarin can be received as soon as you finish with the ambassadors”, Erestor insisted, leaning towards the king. “Do you want to indispose with your neighbors?”  
“Do I want to indispose with my subjects?” Fingolfin replied.  
“Thingol is – influential in Valinor.”  
“ **Melian** is influential in Valinor. Thingol is her consort.”  
“Eärwen is our closest ally.”  
“And showing her preference would prove that there were personal interests in my claim to the throne: my allies are my brother's ex-wife and her lover –my ex-wife, by the way.”  
“Thingol ...”  
“He's an asshole who never recognized me as High King in Beleriand: I only return his lack of respect.”  
“I hate when you reason like your half-brother.”  
“We have the same blood: what did you expect?”  
“More reason for who was a political leader for so long.”  
“You had reason: I was throwing myself in the middle of the orc army. Just for that, I'm going to listen to your reasoning “, he added to his secretary's relief.  
“Thanks for that show of trust ...”  
“Don’t hurry. Herendil?”  
“Yes, Majesty?” the usher straightened, pretending not to have listened to the debate.  
“Open the doors.”  
“What ?!” Erestor exclaimed.  
“Let them all in. Together”, Fingolfin smiled and looked at his friend like the cat that ate the canary. 

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Hеrendil could not help but tighten his lips, holding back his smile, before the High King's solution. 

It really was something interesting to see the group gathered in the Hearing Room (also known as Ring Room or Ring of the Law: Risil Namno). Due to the circular construction of the room, those present could not be located as far as they wanted from each other. Since during the days of applicants only the High King and his closest aides were in the place to listen to everyone who had something to say to the government, only the royal throne was bare at that time. In the middle of a circumference of armchairs covered by white cloths, the newcomers grouped themselves like frightened animals of the environment.  
Herendil looked them over. 

The Avarin group was composed of elves of both sexes, reaching more than half a dozen. At least three of them wore the characteristic attributes of the shamans, who acted as spiritual guides of the different tribes; the rest were undoubtedly renowned warriors among their people and one of the females wore her face painted with red and black stripes, which marked her as a 'storyteller', or - what was the same - the chronicler of her people. All alike wore the simple clothes of their people, since the avarin gave more importance to the paintings than to the garments. Judging by the colors and ornaments they used, Herendil guessed that they were representatives of at least four different tribes. 

The Sindarin who came on their own were five. Their leader seemed to be a remarkably tall and slender elf who wore blue night with emerald green details. Herendil did not remember seeing the sinda in any of the audiences held during the reign of Finarfin; but the face of the female beside him seemed familiar. This was the opposite of his companion: short stature and stuffed curves, her copper hair was collected in a high bun adorned by silver and turquoise pins in the shape of hummingbirds and dressed in shades of blue. 

The ambassador of the High Queen Eärwen was accompanied by two other teleri, a female and a male. The three of them wore the traditional costume of their people, wearing the striking bracelets of pearls and wore jewels interwoven in their silvery hair. 

Finally, and being the furthest from the rest, were the envoy of King Thingol and his escort, composed of three soldiers whose weapons had been removed before entering the room. 

Herendil received from the hands of his student Hallawendë a parchment with the names and titles of the visitors and read them before beginning to announce, in a monotonously eloquent tone: 

“Lord Craban, of the Crow Tribe. Lady Celeruscel, from Fox Tribe. Lady Celoniel, from the River Tribe. Lord Belvrôg, of the Bear Tribe. Lord Ardraug and Lord Curanion, of the Tribe of the Moon. Lady Orothrîn and Faerdhinn, of the Mountain Tribe. Lady Araxáne, Voice of the Hwenti.”

Fingolfin had quietly listened to the names of the Avarin representatives. His limited knowledge of the Avarin culture allowed him to be sure that the names used were pseudonyms - possibly adaptations of the real names - since the avari did not use their language in the presence of strangers, because of the power they gave to words. When the last name was reached, however, the king of the Noldor blinked, unable to conceal his surprise: the 'storyteller' (with all certainty, the highest ranking in the whole group for her social role in the life of the tribes) had used her real name. Fingolfin understood that it was not just deference to him; but the female showed him that she was not afraid that her name could be used against her. 

The High King studied her with interest. Certainly, she was a beautiful female; but her beauty was almost somber, accentuated by the ritual paintings that highlighted the dark and almond-shaped eyes, and the sharp features. Her hair was dyed a silver-blue hue that contrasted with the red and black of her face. The Avar female held the king's gaze without haughtiness; but surely and Fingolfin searched in his mind what little he could learn from his avarin allies in Beleriand, trying to make sense of the name he heard. When he understood the meaning of Araxáne, he had to make an effort not to burst out laughing and found, amused, that the elf's mouth twisted as if she had followed his thoughts. Fingolfin gave him a slight nod and concentrated on the voice of Herendil, who introduced the Sindar. 

"... Lord Nadhoron Mírdanion, Lady Tingil Lalvoniel and Lady Gaereth Gilornoriel," concluded the usher, unperturbed. 

Fingolfin watched the copper-haired Sindë a few seconds before continuing with the presentations of Eärwen's ambassador, a certain Lord Aiaráto and his children Telpelindo and Vilveriniel. 

“In the name of King Elu Thingol”, continued Herendil, “Prince Celeborn of Doriath.”

An uncomfortable silence followed the last presentation made by the usher.  
Until that moment, Thingol's ambassador had worn the hood of his cloak over his head and only when Herendil pronounced his name was it discovered. Fingolfin restrained the impulse to betray his thoughts and, with a calm continent, greeted Galadriel's husband.

“Nephew”, he said softly, “what a pleasure to receive you. I hope that my niece Galadriel will find health and spiritual peace.”  
“Concerned about her father's health, nothing more”; admitted Celeborn, while his cheeks were dyed pink.  
“We all are; but we trust that Estë can contribute to the purification of his body and his spirit.”

Celeborn nodded and made as if to continue the conversation; but the Noldóran had turned towards the Avarin embassy and with a wave of his hand, invited the 'storyteller' to speak. 

Araxáne took a step forward and raised both hands to chest height, joined them - covering the left fist with his right hand - before leaning slightly, without lowering her head.

“The Seven Tribes of the Hwenti greet the leader of the Deep Elves”, the female began in quenya, speaking with enough fluency to cause the rest of the delegations to observe her with amazement. “I, Araxáne, daughter of Ennýnil, speak on behalf of the Seven Tribes when I am before you”, she continued in Sindarin without transition. “The Seven Tribes wish to give their congratulations to the King who has recovered his crown. Our shamans have read the stars and they point to a glorious route for your reign. The Celestial Paladin shows difficulties in your path, leader; but the Star of Fire predicts that once again you will drive your boat to a good port.”

Fingolfin frowned slightly: had they come to the palace to read his fortune? 

“I am grateful that you came ...”  
“The Seven Tribes are the survivors of the Ten Tribes of the Hwenti who were born and prospered in the Great Lands before the return of the Deep Ones”, picked up the word Araxáne while her fingers were raised in the air to draw her speech. “The Forest Tribe perished completely when the fires descended from the Horror Fangs and their souls were devoured by the flames of the winged serpents. Very few of the Crane Tribe reached to fight in the Battle of the Unnumbered Tears and their souls chose to ignore the call of Bannoth Guî. The Wind Tribe chose to remain in the Free Lands even when the time of our people there is over. The Seven Tribes are all that remain of the Hwenti who walked free before the veil was stabbed by the silver horns of Ithil and the fires of Anar. I, Araxáne daughter of Ennýnil, was born in the Blessed Land, long after Daeris, mother of my mother, walked again with a body of flesh and blood. I lived not in the times when the Aran-i-Heleg reigned over those who faced the Great Shadow; but my blood remembers what my mother's mother remembers. The Seven Tribes come to ask the leader of the Deep to accept our loyalty as he accepted it when the light of Ithil was renewed on the foggy land.”

Erestor blinked, baffled: in the past, getting the Avarin's trust had been complicated, to use a soft word. Especially by Daeris Silver Voice, 'storyteller' of the tribes outside the domain of Thingol and his wife Melian. The female was quite influential in the life of the different tribes - surpassing even the shamans - and did not trust the new arrivals from the West. And here was her granddaughter asking Fingolfin - the same one that Daeris almost despised and accused as a slave of the Valar - that he will take their oath of loyalty! 

“Daeris”, repeated Fingolfin, also recognizing the name. “I am sure that the venerable Daeris Silver Voice is proud of the granddaughter who has inherited her gift for weaving stories. You speak of seven tribes, Araxáne; but only six are represented here.”  
“The first son of Nendil of the Water Tribe has decided to arrive today, chieftain”, Araxáne smiled. “Nendil's partner is young and scared. But the will of the Seven Tribes is only one when they put it in my voice. The Hwenti we hope to call you our king.”

Fingolfin reclined on the throne. Although he was flattered by the intention of those who were once his allies in Beleriand, something did not quite sink in. 

“I understand that when you have come here without waiting for me to come to you as I had announced I would, it means that you expect us to hold a ceremony to seal our loyalty.”

All the avari nodded in unison before Araxáne spoke out loud. However, Fingolfin clearly remembered that in the avarin tribes the rank was not hereditary: if the leader died or was unable to continue exercising command, the charge did not pass to their descendants; but it was put 'in convocation'. The same happened with the shamans and the 'storytellers’, although the latter also had to prove they had the gift. 

“Araxáne daughter of Ennýnil”, said the king, slowly, “I understand that this oath is offered to me and not to the figure of the Noldóran, isn’t it?”  
“You are the Noldóran”, means the female, maliciously.  
“Until a few days ago it was my younger brother. And I know that the Seven Tribes did not offer their allegiance to him.”  
“The previous king was not trustworthy”; Araxáne shrugged.  
“My brother ...”

One of Araxáne's companions touched her on the shoulder and when she turned around, he moved his hands quickly in front of his face, drawing symbols in the sign language of the avarin scouts. He was a slender young elf, of androgynous beauty, whose white hair was adorned with onyx beads and a black band ran from his forehead to his chin. 

“Faerdhínen says to remind you that the spirit of the previous king was confused by the mists of vision and dream”, Araxáne informed, nodding at his partner's address. “But you say well, chieftain: we offer you our loyalty, **to you** , Finwë Nolofinwë; no to your crown.”

A murmur of disapproval escaped Teleri's trio, while Celeborn and his escort watched with interest, waiting for Fingolfin's reaction. 

"You flatter me with this show of confidence in my limited abilities as ruler," nodded Fingolfin, with modesty. “But I must reject it.”

Before the puzzled expressions of the avarin and the frowning eyebrows of the ‘storyteller', he added: 

“Unlike my brother, my gift to see the future is tiny and therefore, I cannot foresee how long I will sit in this throne. When the time comes to hand over the crown, I don’t plan to keep loyalties that only correspond to the king of the Noldor. In Beleriand, we were allies and the relationship between our peoples benefited both sides. In memory of the time when Daeris was the Voice of the Ten Tribes of the Hwenti, I beg you, my friends –brothers, to accept once more allies of the Noldor. Only then will I take your oath of allegiance and give you mine ... in the name of all my people, not as a king; but as friend and brother of the leaders of the Seven Tribes of the Hwenti.”

Araxáne held the Noldóran's gaze before turning to his companions to consult the proposal. 

"I must intervene at this moment," Celeborn raised his voice, advancing several steps until he was before the throne.  
“Lord Celeborn”, Erestor intervened, squinting, suspicious; “His Majesty has not given you the word ...”  
“I am not a subject of Fingolfin; but of the High King Thingol, lord of all the elves who remained in Middle-earth and did not complete the Great Journey.”

Silence welcomed his statement. Both the avari and the sindar present frowned upon hearing the claim of Thingol's ambassador. 

“The Avari, like all the Sindar, owe their loyalty to Elu Thingol and when offering to seal a pact with them, the High King of the Noldor is ignoring in flagrant way the authority of my sovereign and uncle.”  
“The Seven Tribes have not sworn allegiance to the King Greymantle and his non-elf queen”; declared one of the Avarin males, who wore a crescent moon painted between his eyebrows.  
“The King Greymantle and the non-elfqueen did not swear allegiance to the Ten Tribes in the Great Lands”; added a female whose coppery hair ended in a white tip, imitating the tail of a fox. “When the parents of my parents were at the mercy of the Great Shadow, Greymantle closed his kingdom and ignored the cries of those who were dragged into the depths of the Iron Hells.”  
“When Faerdhínen escaped from the Iron Hells, Greymantle blocked his path, letting him wander to die, accusing him of having broken under the power of the Dark Enemy”; declared the female next to the mute elf. “Our people welcomed him and healed his wounds, claiming him as one of our own. Greymantle is not the king of the Seven Tribes.”

“Calm!” Fingolfin intervened before Celeborn could reply. “Calm down, my brothers. Celeborn, you know as well as any of those present that the Avarin tribes did not pledge allegiance to any High King in Middle Earth. Thingol cannot claim his dominance over them. The Tribes are independent and for that reason I am offering them an alliance. Even living in the lands ruled by the Noldóran they will not be my subjects ...”

“Thingol will not accept that alliance. Nor does he accept that you have claimed as your subjects the Sindar who live in your lands ...”

“We have always been subjects of the Noldóran!” Gaereth exclaimed, putting herself in front of Sindar's group. “My mother was the administrator of the High King Fingolfin in Barad Eithel ...”

“You are Gilrin’s daughter!” Exclaimed Erestor, and at Fingolfin's frown, he pressed his lips together, returning to his position next to the throne. 

“The High King Elu Thingol does not recognize Fingolfin as king of the Noldor either “, continued Celeborn, ignoring the interruption of the sinda and the secretary.

“What ?!” Erestor exclaimed.

“Since Fingolfin took the throne in circumstances that are under suspicion, King Thingol has submitted a document to the Supreme King Ingwë so that the circumstances of Fingolfin's rise to power are investigated by neutral agents. Meanwhile, King Thingol expects the Noldor government to be taken over by someone who does not ... " Celeborn's voice faltered, "someone who has not been involved in the Alqualondë’s Kinslayer and who does not maintain bounds with any of those involved in the later Slaughters of Doriath and Sirion ...”

“ **The High King Fingolfin** ”, raised the voice the one mentioned, standing up, “demands that Thingol stops intervening in the politics of foreign nations. The King Greymantle”; continued Fingolfin, descending the throne steps and advancing in the direction of his political nephew, ”has no authority over the Noldor or over the Sindar who swore allegiance to the Noldorin Houses in Beleriand. King Greymantle’s words will be dismissed as the words of a thief, who claimed as a price of his daughter’s hand something that did not belong to him, attracting by himself the disgrace upon his own people. **The High King Fingolfin** will not listen to the messages of hatred and resentment incited by those who succumbed to the ambition of the Silmarils. As for the matter of Alqualondë, King Greymantle will let High Queen Eärwen Olweniel and I air the issue at our convenience: Thingol is sovereign of the Sindar, not of the Teleri, as I recall. As for your demand that a person not involved in the question of Alqualondë occupy the throne, let me remind you ... **nephew** , that the Noldorin law does not contemplate the female descendants as heirs to the throne, and all the male descendants of Finwë ... they participated in Alqualondë ... or they maintain good and close relations with those involved in the looting of Doriath and the attack on the Havens of Sirion.”

“Prince Turgon does not ...”

“Turgon has been stripped of his title of prince by royal decree”, Fingolfin interrupted Celeborn once more, coldly. “As I have just stated, King Thingol's opinion has been heard and will not be taken into consideration. **The High King Fingolfin** ”, he indicated himself with both hands, in attitude of mockery, “is the one who governs the Noldor and will be the one who handles the political questions with his allies and subjects. You can tell your king that the Seven Tribes and the Noldóran have an alliance.”

“The High King Thingol will see that the Supreme King Ingwë ...” Celeborn insisted, turning pale. 

“Here I will wait for what Ingwë Ingweron has to say. And I will answer him as I judge better for the welfare of my people. I will not invite you to enjoy our hospitality because I am convinced that your king anxiously awaits your return, Lord Celeborn.”

Taking a step back, Fingolfin left space for the sinda to retire; but Celeborn had not had a chance to move when Herendil came forward from the door and with a loud voice, announced: 

“Ingwion, Prince Regent of the Vanyar!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names (a lot of names in this chapter):  
> Quenya:  
> * Parmaitë: skillful in books (q)  
> * Istimaráto: cult champion (q)
> 
>  
> 
> Sindarin:  
> *Craban: raven;  
> *Celeruscel: Swift fox female;  
> *Celoniel: river’s daughter;  
> *Belvrog: strong bear;  
> *Ardraug: noble wolf;  
> *Cúranion: son of the crescent moon;  
> *Ororthrin: mountain’s queen;  
> * Faerdhínen: silent spirit.  
> *Nadhoron: pasture+ masc term.;  
> *Mírdanion: son of Mírdan (jewel smith);  
> *Tingil: metal+fem term;  
> *Lalvoniel: daughter of Lalvon (elm);  
> *Gaereth: coppery red+fem term;  
> *Gilornoriel: daughter of Gilornor (star tree).  
> *Gilrin: maid crowned with stars.  
> *Ennýnil: West/ Sunset.  
> *Daeris: Shadow queen.  
> *Bannoth Guî: Námo.
> 
>  
> 
> *Avarin: Araxáne: she-commander of the king (XP she’s Fingolfin’s namesake). 
> 
>  
> 
> Telerin:  
> *Aiaráto: sea champion;  
> *Telpelindo: silver Singer;  
> *Vilveriniel: maid butterfly. 
> 
> ** About Avarin: Hwenti (Kwendi) shows a change kw > hw and d > t, and the original long final -î has become short -i (as in kindi above and penni below). If hw denotes the same sound as in Quenya (unvoiced w, like English wh in dialects where which is audibly distinct from witch), this hw may be the product of [x] (sc. German ach-Laut) in contact with [w]. Perhaps this branch of Avarin turned the original unvoiced stops into spirants, like [k] > [x], and devoiced the original voiced stops, like [d] > [t]. (Ardalambion Index)


	28. Chapter 28

Nerdanel came into the kitchen, combing her thick curly hair with her fingers. Drops of water ran down her face and neck after she cooled off in the well near the house.

“Finally!” exclaimed the she-elf next to the stove. “For once you get home before the sun goes down. What takes you so long in that workshop, girl?”  
“I'm making the most of orders for _Endien*_.”  
“Almost a year left for that. Why the rush?”  
“It is a complicated sculptural group: the Two Trees and the Valar gathered around -it will take me a while and although I already have the sketches, I want to take advantage of the help I am receiving as much as I can.”  
“When you say ‘help’ ... do you mean your ex-husband?”  
“My husband, mother”, Nerdanel smiled, patient. “Fëanáro is still my husband.”  
“According to the Law of Fingolfin and Anairë ... it is the opposite. Until you renew their vows -if you renew them, you are no longer married.”  
“I don’t think he understands it that way. He has not even mentioned it.”

Hyellemaitë frowned as she concentrated on stirring the stew.

“Have you thought it could be the other way around?” the older she-elf finally ventured.  
“How?” the sculptress was disconcerted.  
“Perhaps, the reason that Fëanáro does not mention anything about his marriage is because he thinks that both you and he are aware that you are no longer husband and wife.”

Nerdanel looked at her mother, who still had her back to her. She knew that Hyellemaitë did not approve of her closeness to Fëanor after how things ended between them.

“Mhm ... I'm sure he would have said something about it. You know that he never keeps what he thinks.”  
“Then, you should ask him”, Hyellemaitë insisted, turning in front of her with her hands on her hips.  
“Ask him what?”  
“If he still considers himself as your husband.”  
“Mom, that's ridiculous. I don’t want to look like an anxious teenager.”  
“Nerdanel Istarwen, **you do look like an anxious teenager**. Let me remind you that Fëanáro has not been precisely - chaste since you two separated -and not since his reincarnation. Now, if he really considers that he’s still your husband, why has he sought pleasure with other elves instead of coming to you?”  
“Mother!” exclaimed the younger female, stunned and blushed to be the color of her hair.  
“What? Has he done it? Is that what you do so many hours in the workshop? Let me doubt it. I am certain that Fëanáro has not sought you sexually even once.”  
“It's not -Things between us are not like that”, denied Nerdanel, stubbornly. “We know each other. He knows when -We ...”  
“Nerdanel ...” her mother called softly, approaching her to take a hand between hers; “dear, I would love you to be right and Fëanáro would like to recover you; but you must be realistic, my love. I do not want you to get hurt again.”  
“This time is different, mom,” Nerdanel smiled, recovering her usual quiet mood. “Fëanáro has changed a lot. I'm going to bathe: I'm starved.”  
“Well, hurry up: it's almost over and your father is out there.”

 

A quarter of an hour later, Mahtan entered the kitchen and found his wife murmuring to the stew.

“What now, woman?” the blacksmith asked, crossing his arms. “What did Urundil do this time? Did he build another of his flying devices?”  
“He still has an arm in a sling from his last attempt to fly so -no, no mechanical birds.”  
“Thanks to Aulë”, Mahtan sighed, more relieved.  
“Your daughter, however, has a head full of birds.”  
“Nerdanel?”  
“Do you have another daughter?” Hyellemaitë frowned. “With the blonde from the mine, right?”  
“Is there a blonde in the mine?” Mahtan was disconcerted.  
“Isilmë, I think.”  
“Ah! Is really a girl? And blonde? I always see her in uniform and helmet - whatever! What happens with Nerdanel?”  
“You know.”

Mahtan was about to start another round of meaningless questions when his eyes lit up.

“Fëanáro”, he sighed.  
“Yes. Fëanáro. Anyone would believe that after thousands of years, our daughter would have understood once and for all that this male is not for her.”  
“Has he tried ...?”  
“Of course not! It is **she** who has invented a romantic novel in her head. She is convinced that Fëanáro thinks they are still married.”  
“Did She tell you if he behaved in a way that suggests ...?”  
“Mahtan, they are living apart. In all these months since they started working together, he has not stayed here one night and has not invited her to his house either.”  
“They have traveled alone ...”  
“If they had slept together during those trips, Nerdanel would have already moved to the lake house. Believe me, Mahtan: Fëanáro does not intend to return with her.”  
“I hope so.”  
“Only Nerdanel does not know.”

Mahtan furrowed his thick eyebrows, worried.

“Do you think I should talk to her?”  
“She will not listen to you.”  
“With him?” He suggested, frowning more.

His wife crossed her arms, thoughtful. After a moment, she shook her head.

“We will see. Maybe I'm wrong and Fëanáro if you intend to renew the wedding vows at some point.”  
“Hyelle ... you and I know that will not work either”, sighed the leader of the Aulendili. “If now Fëanáro is looking for Nerdanel's company, it's only because Fingolfin's new duties have taken them away.”  
“Then, maybe it's with the High King you should talk to when the time comes”, reflected Hyellemaitë.  
“Maybe”, Mahtan nodded.  
“Is the food already?” Nerdanel hummed at that moment, entering the kitchen.  
His parents exchanged a worried look.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

The High King waited for his guest, standing by his seat. 

Obeying Erestor's insistence, he had dressed 'appropriately to his rank', which included more than two layers of clothes, jewelry and the headband. Once again, Fingolfin studied the silver and sapphires bracelets, matching the earring on his left ear and the rings he wore on both hands, and he couldn’t help but comparing them to Fëanor's work. Although delicate and more elaborate than ostentatious, the jewels that the king wore lacked the personal stamp of his half-brother and Fingolfin could not help but recognize that each time he sat on the throne of Tirion, he retained very few gifts from his brother. His hand instinctively went to the circlet on his forehead: the other time, even, he had worn the tiara that Fëanor gave him as an adult.

"It's not your style." 

Fingolfin blinked and a smile curved his mouth as he discovered his guest reclining on the back of a chair next to his. 

“You should have seen the freak with which they crowned me. Welcome, cousin, " he added warmly. 

Ingwë's only son straightened in all his vanyarin stature and approached the Noldóran with open arms. 

Ingwion was a taller and wider-shoulders version of Finarfin's sons. Unlike most Vanyar, his abundant hair stood on his head in strong, hard strands (making clear from which part of the family Aegnor inherited it). His eyes had the same cobalt tone as Fingolfin's and his skin was much darker than the rest of his race.  
Right now, the Prince Regent of the First Clan dressed in the vanyarin style, with an elaborate white and red robe with wide sleeves. As a crown, he wore a gold chain woven into his hair that left a row of diamond tears resting on his forehead. In his left hand, he wore the ring that marked his rank: a golden eagle that extended to the first phalanx, preventing him from bending his index finger. 

When both cousins parted, still holding each other by the shoulders, Ingwion fixed the sight again in the diadem that Fingolfin wore and raised a hand to slide his fingers through the central sapphire. 

"It lacks stars," he said, disappointed. “Or snowflakes. That would look good on you.”  
“It's from Gil”, confessed the noldo and with a gesture, indicated the seat of his companion. “Do we eat?”  
“Do you expect me to sit at the other end of the table?” raised his golden eyebrows the vanya. “It's a joke, right?2  
“It's ... protocol.”  
“You know what you can do with the protocol, right? It’s just you and me, Káno.”  
"Whatever," sighed Fingolfin and Ingwion smiled triumphantly. 

 

A few minutes later, they had occupied two adjoining seats in the middle of the table and gave a quick account of the first course.

“Then”, Ingwion began after emptying his telerin wine glass, "you convinced yourself that this was the right thing to do. You were starting to worry me.”  
“Really?”  
“Governing is your natural state. I can’t imagine you without being in charge.”  
“I do. It's –liberating”, Fingolfin sighed loudly and took a long drink. “And avoid the headache.2  
“You're doing very well for someone who suffers from headache”; the Vanya scoffed. “Truth, when Indis wrote to me, I worried a lot. She was horrified by what was happening with Arvo and by the fact that her favorite child had to fix the disasters of others. Once again. She worries very much about that you have had to leave your comfortable refuge to put yourself in front of your ... proud compatriots.”  
“It won’t be for a long time, I guarantee you. I don’t plan on staying with this job.”

Ingwion reached out and picked up the wine bottle to pour himself another drink. He filled his cousin's and took small sips before saying, cautiously: 

“If you're counting on passing the crown to Finrod ... go forgetting it, Káno.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Your nephew has submitted a request to the Valar -and it was granted.”  
“What kind of request?”  
“As you know, there are still some of our brothers scattered in the world of Men. Some chose to stay; but others -are lost. Finrod has requested permission from the Valar to go in search of those lost elves. Amarië will accompany him.”

Fingolfin stared at his mother's cousin, his expression dazed. After a few seconds, turned his face and closed his eyes .

“When ...? How long has been since Finrod presented ...?”  
“More than a year ago. Before his marriage.”  
“Did anyone know?”  
“Only Amarië, my father and I, apparently. I doubt he even told his brothers.”  
“Well, there are still ...”  
“Angrod will be named the official heir of the Telerin throne. He was the logical choice since he has a son who succeeds him, while Aegnor will not marry. Unless Námo receives instructions to reincarnate the Second Children as well.”  
“Orodreth ... “  
“He has sworn allegiance to you. Are you looking for an escape, Káno? I remember that you were anxious to make changes in the world: this is your opportunity.”  
“I already had my chance. It turned out that the changes did not have to be made in the world; but in me.”

Ingwion watched him, biting the inside of his right cheek. 

“You’ve become too philosophical for my taste, Arakáno”, he snorted, impatiently.  
“Who would say it. You are a vanya.”  
“That - was it an insult? Because I remind you that you are half Vanya.” He watched him out of the corner of his eye, with a suspicious expression. “Somewhere in addition to your precious eyes, of course.”  
“It was the declaration of a fact, Ingwion. I do not want to change the world”, he admitted, tired. “I want to stay at home and play with my new grandchildren ... and read a good book ... and know that my children are safe and sound ...”  
“Even the stretched Turgon?”  
“Even the stretched Turgon. He's -he's my son too, remember? And he was a wonderful child.”  
“Too bad he didn’t stay like that.”  
“Turgon has never passed the death of Elenwe.”  
“They are together now”, said Ingwion, with cold logic.  
“Eh ... yes; but he’s still afraid. He is afraid of losing her again. That's why he desperately needs to control everything. Only then he can be sure she does not disappear again.”  
“ That's why you have to be the Noldóran”,- declared the vanyarin Prince.” You are the only one with enough brain and heart to make decisions that benefit others. Even against his will. Speaking of Turgon- I want to take him to Valimar with me.”

Fingolfin shrugged.

"Turgon is an adult. And he is not a prince of the Royal House.”  
“That I heard.”  
“Elenwë, on the other hand, is preparing her trip to Alqualondë to be with Idril until delivery. My daughter-in-law and my granddaughter needed each other. And Elenwë barely knows Lómion.”  
“You have -a secret passion for second chances.”

The High King drank in silence, pretending not to understand the allusion. Ingwion imitated him for a few minutes ... until his curiosity could more.

“How did Fëanor take your return to the throne?”  
“Do you see him somewhere?” Fingolfin asked, with bitterness.  
“That's wrong. Did we go back to the past?”  
"There will not be a revolution, if that is what your father fears, Ingwion," declared the King of the Noldor, harshly, finally understanding the reason for Vanya's visit.  
“My father ... he barely gave his opinion about it, cousin”, clarified the other. “It's me who is worried. And not for a revolution; but for you ... for your people. Times ... are not good for the elves. That is why I agreed with Finrod's decision to go and look for our lost ones in the human world. We need as many hands as possible in Aman.”

Fingolfin frowned with his eyes fixed on the bottom of his glass. 

"Has anyone ever thought that there might not be enough space in Aman for all the elves?"  
Ingwion watched him until Fingolfin looked up from the glass.  
“Yes. My father has been thinking about it for a long time. But Varda and others Valar assure that he worries in vain: Aman is wide enough to house ...”  
“We are talking about all the elves that exist, existed and will exist”, recounted Fingolfin. He pouted and added: "Except the unfortunates who were corrupted by Morgoth and transformed into orcs. Many elves, actually. Lucky that Fingon managed to rescue Maedhros.”  
“ Arakáno ...” Ingwion called, raising an eyebrow. “Are you drunk? You just had a drink.”

Fingolfin leaned back in his chair. 

"I'm not drunk, Ignwion; don’t be an idiot. Only the Vanyar and the Sindar get drunk with so little. I just understood that this is worse than I thought. We lost our place in Middle-earth and now our home is not enough for everyone. And meanwhile, my people are more concerned about conserving their lands and getting rich! My brother used drugs to see the future! Did he not see this?”  
“Káno, calm down. We are going to find a solution. That is why I am here.”  
“Seriously?” Fingolfin scoffed. “Aren’t you here because of that asshole of Greymantle’s letter? I'm sorry: that was ... anti-diplomatic.”  
“The letter was addressed to my father. Who did not pay attention, by the way. My father saw for himself the state of Finarfin and -Well, all these decisions he leaves to me. Although he retains the title of Supreme King of the Elves, who governs de facto over the Vanyar is me.”  
“I swear I hadn’t noticed”, the Noldo narrowed his eyes.  
“Oh Eru,” Ingwion whispered, sinking his forehead in his hands; “I had forgotten how grumpy you become when fight with Fëanor.”  
“Oh! Stop blaming him from everything that is wrong with me!” Fingolfin snorted. “Fëanor is an elf independent of me. Yes, I am desperate, anxious, furious -and sexually frustrated because he is not with me now; but not ...”

He broke off at the sight of his cousin's stunned look. Frowning, he reviewed his words and cursed under his breath. 

“Oh Manwë Súlimo”, murmured the Prince Regent. “That I didn’t expect it. It is true that you -that is, your relationship as brothers was always -complicated ... but I never thought -Arakáno, you could be banished for that.”  
“That?” He raised an eyebrow.  
“In-in-incest.”  
“Ingwion, technically, Fëanor and I receive new bodies when reincarnated: there is no blood relationship between us. Before you ask: yes, I consider him my brother and he considers me the same. It's complicated. But I love him. We love each other. And when all this is over and I discover what to do with this damned crown, I'm going to ask him on my knees to never get away from me again. And I do not care if the Valar banish me.”  
“Wow”, Ingwion stammered. “No -I won’t say anything. I'm -I'm stunned. Let's talk about politics. It's ...”  
“It's what you're here for, is not it?”  
“That! I'm here to -Thingol! He ...”  
“He needs to give the crown to someone.”  
“Eh ... how do you say?”  
“He’s the only one of the old kings that clings to the throne. Even your father has left the practical part of government in your hands. Young people, with more advanced ideas, able to adapt to the world that changes around us ...” He stopped, contemplating the dessert that a servant had just put before him. “There should be a law ...”  
“A law?”  
“One that limits the time an elf king can be on the throne. We are proud people, cousin. Regardless of our Clan, it’s hard for us to admit our mistakes, to admit that we aren’t the best option. To ensure the welfare of our people, the first thing we should know is when we stop being useful ... when we become obsolete.”

Ingwion bit his lower lip thoughtfully.

“That's a good idea”, he nodded after a few minutes. “My father will agree.”  
“I was not thinking about your father, unfortunately.”  
“But ...”  
“You are the Prince Regent, the head of the Vanyarin government to put it in some way. It would be your position that would become pro tempore. Like the High King of the Noldor, of the Teleri ... of the Sindar ... We elect the Counselors (at least in Tirion) and their electors can remove them from office when they deem fit; but who makes the final decision, the king, remains the same until ... the end of Arda? I don’t think Eärwen is happy with that.”  
“But I think Thingol will cling to his crown with all his might.”  
“Then he'll be alone. Once again. We are not in Middle-earth, waiting for Morgoth's attack, fearing that everyone who approaches may be a spy ... The power of the Valar is no longer a guarantee. If the Valar has weakened, what to expect from the Maiar? Thingol is relying once again on the power of Melian to stay safe. For how long? However, I will not press him to understand the need to unite. I know where that road leads. If the elves under his rule seek refuge in other lands, I will not close mine, Ingwion, and I want to make that clear. I know that neither Eärwen will refuse to receive them and I am convinced Thranduil will be more than happy to steal followers from who refused to recognize him as king and despised his wife.”  
“Neither the Vanyar will close the doors to those who seek protection”, Ingwion said.  
“Then, Thingol will know that he is alone again. I'm going to present the temporality of the Noldorin government to your father. As the Supreme King of the Elves, he must give the go-ahead. But only after my Council has accepted it.”  
“My father will want to take advantage of that law. For years he has not ruled and has not abdicated in my favor as Olwë did with his daughter by pure miracle.”  
“Your father's charge is more ceremonial than practical; but he is the only one who can occupy it. I will present my apologies when I see him. However, cousin, Ingwë Ingweron is our ambassador to the Valar. We need him there. For a while longer, at least.”  
“You have my support.”  
“We'll start with the Noldor. With all certainty, Eärwen will abide by the law and will only be left to see the opinion of Thranduil and Lenwë.”

Ingwion watched his cousin, gazing with delight at the excited glow in his blue eyes. For the first time in the night, the air of sadness and resignation that darkened the features of the noldo had dissipated. Ingwë's son remembered seeing this expression in his cousin before. Although Finarfin and Indis were the ones who followed more the physical and the character of the maternal family, Ingwion had always felt closer to Fingolfin. Fingolfin was the one who received the education and responsibilities of a real heir, so he and Ingwion had a lot in common.

“Sometimes I wish I had been born a woman”, said Ingwion, with a slight sigh. 

Fingolfin frowned. 

"Do you like silk underwear?"  
“A marriage between you and me would have been an alliance like no other.”

Fingolfin spat out the drink he had just taken. He coughed, looking for a napkin before his cousin handed him his. Still wiping his mouth with the linen square, he fixed his eyes on Ingwion. 

“We are cousins.”  
“I'm your mother's cousin. Also, we're talking nonsense: I was not born a woman and marriage between elves of the same sex was only approved a few centuries ago. When you were already in Mandos.”  
“As a female, you would not be Ingwë's heiress.”  
“The daughter of Ingwë and the High King of the Noldor”, raised an eyebrow the vanya. “We would have dominated the world.”  
“That does not seem like a… nice idea.”  
“We could have done it. Even if we did not do it for ethics, our power would have been ...”  
“I had no idea you were so ambitious.”  
“We can still get married”, insisted Ingwion.  
“No, we can’t. Apart from the fact that I am already in love with someone else, you and I make a good team; but not a good couple. You're asexual, Ingwion, and I -well, I really enjoy having sex. Anairë and I, although we were not exactly in love, had a very active sexual life -Why the hell am I talking about this with you?”  
“Because I just proposed to you”, said Ingwion, unalterable. “I wouldn’t mind if you had a lover -if Fëanor is your lover.”  
“Cousin ...”  
“I’m worried about the reaction that your relationship with Fëanor will provoke.”  
“My children know it.”  
“Varda may not be understanding with your scientific reasons. I don’t want you to be banished. If by offering you a safe facade I guarantee you to continue with us and enjoy your happiness, I can accept ...”  
“In that case, I would have chosen to return with Anairë. She would also sacrifice herself for my well-being. But I'd hate to chain myself to a marriage of convenience. And Fëanor would not accept living in darkness. I appreciate your concern, Ingwion; but I am forced to reject your proposal.”  
“Pity”, the older one clicked his tongue. “You attract me enough, if I'm going to be honest. And I like your company.”  
“You're about to convince me with such romanticism”, exclaimed Fingolfin, holding a hand to his chest.  
“Always so adorable, little cousin.”  
“This 'little cousin' has your same height for fifteen millennia.”

“Majesty, I apologize for interrupting your dinner.”

Both rulers turned to Erestor, who remained at the door of the dining room, accompanied by another elf.

“According to your instructions, _aranya_ , I brought Lord Elrond as soon as he arrived from Greenwood.”  
“Of course!” Fingolfin exclaimed, rising to his feet. “Ingwion, meet Elrond Peredhel, my ... great-great-grandson and adopted son of Maedhros and Maglor, lord of Imladris and father of the two magnificent blacksmiths who lead the restoration of Valimar.”

Ingwion stood up to answer the respectful reverence of Elrond, who unconsciously shook his traveling clothes when he was in such an august company. 

“Join us, Elrond. I will personally apologize to Celebrían for keeping you away a little longer. How were things with Thranduil?”  
“Good,” Elrond declared, calmly. “In the case of Thranduil, the fact that he didn’t throw me out before I could speak is already an advance. He is angry. Enough to not want to know about the Noldor in another five hundred years; but after all these days, and in memory of the friendship that united us in difficult times, he has agreed to an alliance with the new Noldóran. His lands have prospered despite the limitations imposed by the treaty with the previous Noldóran and he’s willing to –offer us his support. Provided that the High King of the Noldor gives a sample of his intention to maintain good diplomatic relations.”  
“I guaranteed access to the rivers”, Fingolfin blinked.  
“But most of his people, and the Court itself, live miles from the margins, as was established in the treaty. Thranduil waits – **asks** \- for the Noldor to help him build an aqueduct system that will carry the water to all parts of his kingdom.”  
“In exchange for being my ally.”  
“Yes.”  
“An aqueduct system.”  
“Yes.”  
“That covers all his kingdom.”  
“Eh… yes.”  
“That requires a good engineer.”  
“I suppose.”  
“And Ecthelion is in charge of the revision of Tirion's hydro-sanitary networks right now.”

“And it urges us”, Erestor intervened. “The urban structures of Tirion have been neglected for a long time.”  
“Glorfindel is not an engineer. And Caranthir already has too much work right now.”  
“Turgon has the knowledge ...”  
“Turgon could not live with Thranduil more than two hours”, assured Elrond, without flinching.  
“What’s the name of that boy who is a friend of Finrod? The one who went with him when Beren ...”  
“Edrahil?” raised an eyebrow Fingolfin, who learned all the names after hearing them once.  
“Celebrimbor has a good opinion of him as an artisan”, Elrond pointed out.  
“I doubt that Thranduil accepts that you send to anyone to the front of the engineers and constructors”, Ingwion commented. “According to what I have been able to appreciate, King Thranduil is proud and fussy. He will interpret the smallest detail as disdain. He is already quite upset by Thingol's reaction to his marriage.”  
“I do not trust the Ingolmor for this task”, snorted Fingolfin. “Most are too young and lack social skills: they will provoke Thranduil's wrath too easily.”

He fixed his eyes on the table, abstracted.

“Fëanor”, Erestor said, after a few minutes of silence.  
“Excuse me?” Ingwion asked.  
“Fëanor is the best option. Not only is he our best craftsman, engineer -and whatever, he is also a member of the Royal House, the closest prince to the current High King ...”  
“If you want to unleash the war, of course he’s the best option. Thranduil will not accept Fëanor in his lands. He lived in Doriath ...”  
“It’s true that Thranduil does not feel special affection for the Noldor”, claimed Elrond, “especially for those bound to the Fëanorion; but ... he's a good ruler. He will put his feelings aside for the good of his people.”

“And if his wife makes him see the convenience of it”, Fingolfin said, getting up. “Erestor, send a message to my brother's house.”  
“Shall I inform him that the High King wishes to see him?”  
“Tell him that I ask for his presence in the palace”, corrected Fingolfin, with sadness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Endien: noun, alternative term for "autumn" . In the Etymologies, the word Endien was assigned a quite different meaning: "Midyear, Midyear week", in the calendar of Valinor a week outside the months, between the sixth and seventh months, dedicated to the Trees; also called Aldalemnar.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyelkormo: Celegorm's amilessë  
> Irissë: Aredhel's birth name.

Fëanor sank down on the bed. His eyes went to the table, on top of which was the note delivered by one of Duilin's guards two days ago.

Fingolfin requested his presence in the palace.

 _Fingolfin_ ; not the High King. _Requested_ ; not ordered.

Fëanor could not help but recognize that his half-brother knew how to be subtle. Fingolfin knew that a direct order would only provoke his anger. For that reason he ignored titles and authority to address Fëanor.

But Fëanor knew Fingolfin too well not to see his strategy.

He had to admit that he was dying to answer, to go to the palace and see again those beautiful blue eyes that he would not stop missing a single second since that night when he discovered Fingolfin’s coronation. They had not seen each other since that moment.

He was aware of everything that happened in the palace thanks to his children and the constant rumors that ran in the city. Nerdanel was not left behind, telling him excited about every positive change that the new government brought. Fëanor had to bite his tongue every time Fingolfin's name is mentioned in his presence. Clenching fists and breathing exercises had already become a habit. But that did not reconcile the desire that forced him to stay awake at night, thinking of Fingolfin, evoking the kisses and the caresses, biting the pillow to drown the moans of frustration.

He wanted to go to the palace. He wanted to enter the throne room and grab Fingolfin by the hair in front of everyone ... and kiss him until there was no more thought in him that wasn’t bound himself to Fëanor for all eternity.

And to avoid committing such a blunder, was why Fëanor stayed away from the palace. Even after what was said by Námo. Or maybe because of what the Vala said.

Fëanor understood that Fingolfin had been obliged to take the crown. Now, with all the details of what happened - supplied by Fingon and Lalwen - he could take the time to think and understand his half-brother. But the pain of knowing that his dreams had been broken - once again - prevented him from acting rationally in dealing with that male.  
However, Fingolfin had called him.

He had no idea what the motive behind that request was; but he had the certainty that it was not out of love. He was still wondering if Fingolfin really loved him as he claimed.

A knock on the door made him frown. Standing up, he reached for a shirt to put on and tucked in his hair before ordering them coming inside.

The door opened and Aredhel entered with a sure step, followed closely by Celegorm.

“Good afternoon, uncle”, greeted the girl. “You arrived early today. I've been trying to see you for a week.”  
“Good afternoon, Aredhel.” Fëanor greeted and looking at Celegorm, added: “Son.” When Celegorm just nodded silently, he turned his attention back to the young woman. “How can I help you, niece?”  
“Nothing for myself. My father, on the other hand, would be very happy if you showed him your support.”

Fëanor stiffened at the words spoken with absolute self-assurance.  
Aredhel went to an ottoman and dropped into it, lounging comfortably. Her cousin stood behind the seat, moving his feet nervously when his father's gaze stopped on him, inquisitive.

“I do not understand what you mean, Aredhel”; declared Fëanor, concentrating on the topic of conversation.  
“Rumors begin to run. Many think that the reason that there were good relations between you two was that a crown was not interposed. Now, with my father on the throne once again, people have not stopped noticing the distance between both of you and fear ...”  
“That's not going to happen.”  
“I hope so. But the rest of the Noldor don’t know our intimacy as a family. I insist: it would be good for my father to show him your support. As a brother and as a subject.”  
“Fingolfin does not need to be associated with me”; he said between his teeth.

She watched him with a raised eyebrow.

Aredhel was the one who most inherited of both parents. Although Fingon was a less hard copy of Fingolfin and Turgon had inherited all the majestic air of his father, the only daughter was a perfect combination of her parents. The girl was born long after her brothers, to the point that she was contemporaneous with Galadriel when Turgon was with Finrod.  
She had her mother's curly hair; but her father's proud features. Quite similar in physical to Anairë, she had, however, certain masculinity in her ways that was evident in the gestures identical to those of Fingolfin. Her eyes, unlike those of her brothers, were a combination of gray and blue that caused the envy of all the ladies of Tirion. With her snowy skin and her always white and silver clothes, Aredhel was, according to Fëanor, the most attractive female he knew.

Like her father, the young woman had a deep, sensual voice that she could modulate at will, whether she wished to sweeten her interlocutors or send them flying.

“You're a jerk if you think my father is worried about that stupidity”; said Aredhel, unconcerned.  
“Others think it”, Fëanor frowned and returned to observe his son. “Celegorm, you do not have to stand up all the time.”  
“Yes, he has”, replied the female, expressionless. “He's learning to behave.”  
“Will he be standing behind you while ...? Aredhel, this is my house and he is my son. You cannot…”  
“I haven’t forgotten that he kidnapped that whore. To marry her. Going back to our subject ...”  
“You were married ... and dead by then. I do not see how ...”  
“If instead of worrying about your stones, he would have gone looking for me, I would not have endured what I endured next to that ... Let's leave the subject. How I treat my husband is my problem, not yours.”  
“Celegorm is not ...”  
“But he's going to be. One of these days. I'm training him by then. And he agrees. Tyelkormo, tell your father how you feel about that.”

The hunter raised his silver eyes and looked at his father. A smile curved the young elf’s lips.

“I'm comfortable with the situation, atto. Don’t worry: Irissë and I are ... readjusting ourselves.”  
“She will not even let you talk or sit without permission”; Fëanor was puzzled.  
“I'll give it back later” said Aredhel. “Tell him, Tyelkormo.”  
“She does”, nodded Celegorm and a voracious expression transformed his features, causing his father to wonder how exactly she rewarded him.  
“Good boy”; smiled Fingolfin’s daughter. “Sit down.”

Obediently, Celegorm dropped by the armchair and rested his head on her side. The girl's fingers tangled in his silver curls, almost tenderly.

“Now, returning to the well-being of my father, which is what interests me -It is not only because of popular opinion that I suggest that you be by his side. My father is suffering because of your absence. He thinks that he can never recover and you do nothing to prove otherwise.”  
“I do not have to do it. It was me who was cheated. He told me…”  
“He told you he loved you and gave his life for you*. It’s surprising how my father does not tire of repeating the same words -and of seeing how you ignore them and turn them against him at the slightest opportunity.”  
“I do not…”  
“You did it. You do. It is your nature to be that selfish. I get it. I wish my father was that selfish. But then we would not love him the way we do. Tell me, Fëanor, would you love a different elf? Would you want someone else by your side?”  
“No. He -Nolvo is everything ...” he closed his eyes, resisting the pain in his chest. “I'm not ready to be by his side and not be able to touch him. I -I need him too much.”  
“So, talk to him. Tell him you need time to strengthen yourself. For my part, I think it's good that you put distance between you two for a while. You've been hip to hip since you reincarnated and that closeness almost frightened me.”  
“We thought it was a prelude to the end of the world”, laughed Celegorm.  
“I didn’t give you permission to speak, precious”, Aredhel reminded him, gently pulling at his hair. “Uncle, go with my father. For theNoldor’s sake. Let people know that you are together, that the crown does not mean anything to you, that it was Finarfin who was wrong -Give him strength to face this test.”  
“I'll think about it,” accepted Fëanor. “How is Lomion? And Idril? How is the pregnancy?”  
“My daughter-in-law is strong”, she smiled, proud. “And my son is a cinnamon roll when it comes to her. He - is going to be a wonderful father.”  
“He took it from the maternal part”, raised an eyebrow Celegorm and raising a hand, took the fingers of Aredhel to kiss them.  
“Bootlicker. Are you taking lessons from Huan?” The female raised an eyebrow in turn.

Fëanor watched them, thoughtfully.

“Are you really going to get married?” he asked.  
“After Celebrimbor and Finduilas”, announced Aredhel, calmly. “We do not want to steal the scoop. Also, they already have a date, did you know?”  
“Curufin told me.”  
“He's more excited than the boyfriend himself.”  
“He's happy for his son.”  
“I'm glad. Curufin always has an orphan cucumber face”; Aredhel shrugged and stood up. “Think about what I said to you. Or better, don’t think: every time you think, you cause a disaster. Go see your brother.”

Celegorm, who had stood up beside her, sighted the envelope on the table and raised a silver eyebrow.

“Is that a summons from the palace?” he asked.  
“It is”, growled Fëanor. His son smiled, mischievous.  
“You already have the perfect excuse so that it doesn’t seem like you were the first to give in.”  
“I do not…”  
“He's right”, Aredhel nodded and turning to her companion, added: “Just for that, I won’t punish you for speaking without permission.”

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

While he waited in the living room where he was led, Fëanor wondered if everyone was really right and only he was making a storm in a glass of water. Námo and Aredhel had presented two aspects of the situation that he did not even value in his despair.

He admitted that he was selfish - he did not know how to be otherwise - but it was harder to admit that he had to resign himself to not having Fingolfin. At least for the moment. He loved that elf. It was the only thing that was clear in his mind as he studied the pattern of the white and gold slabs.

Fëanor was aware of his obsessive nature. As a child he used to obsess over projects, toys ... Then, as a teenager, the situation did not change. He had been somewhat obsessed with Fingolfin since when he was a baby and also during his growth. Now, it was to be expected that his love for him had dyes of madness.

Instinctively, he growled to himself when the word appeared in his mind. It was not madness what he felt now - though on more than one occasion he had wondered if what he experienced for his half-brother was really healthy.  
He turned when the door opened behind him and his breath caught in his chest at the sight of Fingolfin.

 

Unlike the last time they saw each other, Indis's son wore a simple light blue shirt and tight black leather pants. His hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and he wore no jewelry. With both hands he carried a dozen rolls of one meter long.

As soon as he entered, Fingolfin stopped to look at Fëanor and an attempt at a smile tugged the corners of his mouth upwards.

“Welcome”, he said before crossing the room to go to the table located before the window.

Fëanor watched his brother light the lamps on either side of the table and spread out several of the rolls he brought before turning in his direction.

“I appreciate you deciding to accept my invitation ...”  
“Was it?” bit the words Fëanor. “An invitation? I assumed it was a _royal order_.”

The smile froze on Fingolfin's lips, giving way to the typical aloof and haughty expression.

“If so, my guards would have gone looking for you in the first twelve hours you did not answer.”

It was the elder's turn to bite his lower lip, admitting that he behaved like a child. 

“I'm sorry”; he whispered.  
“Why? For not coming before? Or for not believing in me?”  
“You are -you must understand that it is difficult to believe that this time it will be different when you are repeating patterns.”

Fingolfin let his breath out slowly. Again, he bent over the table and smoothed the sheets of paper.

“I need you to help me”, he explained formally. “Thranduil has demanded a show of good will: that we help him to build an aqueduct that covers all his lands. Right now, I do not have any qualified engineer to undertake the task. I have made some sketches of the works; but I do not master the characteristics of the land to define the best scheme or the materials to use.”  
“Do you want me to advise you?” Fëanor frowned; but the curiosity was stronger than his confused feelings and with a few strides, he stood next to his brother to study the plans.  
“I want you to lead the work in Greenwood.”  
“What?!”  
“You are the best of our engineers and builders. Thranduil’s people need this to be carried out as soon as possible and you -you are my best option for ...”  
“Do not you have at your disposal that balrogs’ slayer?”  
“If you mean Ecthelion, right now he's ...”  
“You have a whole damn Academy of Sciences and Crafts to take care of this”; hissed Fëanor, facing him.

Fingolfin straightened up, calmly.

“Thranduil is proud. He will not tolerate what he considers disrespect. Sending the genius among the Noldor, and my dearest brother, I will be proving that I do not consider him ...”  
“Do you ever stop thinking like a fucking politician?” Fëanor roared, moving away from him.  
“I don’t.”

Míriel's son turned around to watch him with eyes blazing with anger.

The king was not impressed by the anger that made the air crack around his older brother. Slowly, he crossed his arms over his chest and sat half-heartedly on the edge of the table.

“I can’t stop thinking like a politician, Curufinwë: I was trained to think in this way. And believe me, now more than ever our people need me to think like that. I have to get allies. Allies to help me drown the voices of Thingol and his Maiarin wife, Elwing, Dior ... and all who hope to strip the Noldor of their independence. I suppose Maedhros already explained to you which is our brother’s situation and how his government has only left the chaos among our people. There are entire districts in our city that lack the essential sanitation to be habitable. Relations with our neighbors are -tense, to put it mildly. Whether I want it or not, I must look for allies, friends ... and I need to use all the cards in my favor.”  
“Now I'm an advantage?”  
“You are my brother. Anyone would suppose you want to help our people.”  
“You're sending me out of city, away from you! Every time I think I may have made a mistake, that you really want me by your side ... you're looking for an excuse to get away.”  
“Curufinwë, I am asking you to assume this task for the sake of ...”  
“I don’t give a shit about Greenwood’s people!” Fëanor exploded, hitting the wall next to him. 

Fingolfin stared unalterably at the cracks in the marble. He uncrossed his arms.

“I thought you'd like to get away from me for a while”, he argued. “Stop listening to your children talking about me. I thought it would be good for you if -if we put distance between us. I cannot leave Tirion and you -you would not run away from this situation.”  
“So you're giving me a way out. Do you want that much to get rid of me?”

As soon as he said it, Fëanor understood that he was acting childishly. However, a small part of him had hoped that Fingolfin would have called him to give him an explanation that would appease his heart, and all he got was a veiled order of exile!

He regretted doubly what he said. For the first time, Fingolfin's gaze showed openly how much Fëanor's distrust hurt him. Not even when a sword crossed between them did Fëanor see such pain in his half-brother’s blue eyes.

It lasted barely a second: immediately, the High King turned his face and took a deep breath. When he spoke, his tone did not reveal if Fëanor's words caused him any grief.

“I understand -and I accept, that you do not give credit to my words. I was unfair to you: I had to at least communicate what was happening, what –what I’d agreed to do; but when I returned from Alqualondë, you weren’t there and Finarfin was waiting for me –and –and everything went out of control. Before I imagined, I had a crown on my head and -I'm not justifying myself, Curufinwë”, he said, firmly. “I'm giving you, too late, the explanations I owed you. This doesn’t change my feelings for you. And I count ... I’m counting with having the chance to show you how much I love you. If you let me.”  
“Nolofinwë ...”  
“But now, I need you as king. I need us to put aside our ... differences and work together. Do this for our people, Curufinwë; do not…”  
“Ask me to do it for you.”

Fingolfin blinked, stunned by the interruption.

Fëanor moved away from the wall against which he leaned and approached his brother. He stopped when he could touch him just by raising a hand and closed his eyes.

“Be selfish for me, Nolvo”; he demanded, hoarsely. “Ask me to do this for you, to help you fix whatever it is ... just for you to feel close to me. Ask me ...”  
"Do it for me," Fingolfin conceded, bowing until his forehead touched Fëanor's. “Help me to be the ruler that our people need. Show me your support, _tyenya_. Let everyone know that you are by my side, that nothing can break us apart this time.”

Fëanor cocked his head without moving away from the contact. With slow movements, he moved closer so that now their cheeks touched. The brush unleashed waves of fire in his veins as Fingolfin's scent filled his lungs. With an effort, he pulled back and stepped back a few steps.

“Show me those sketches you made”, he said. “They could guide me once I study the terrain.”

Pleased, he saw Fingolfin's cheeks stained with carmine and his beautiful eyes slightly clouded with emotion. However, Fingolfin just nodded and obediently turned around to go back to the plans.

This was something they had not done in the thousands of years they spent together in Mandos. Plan, design, discuss details of a project ... this was an experience they had not had since the youth of Fingolfin. In a matter of a quarter of an hour, both studied each possibility. Fëanor, as always, concentrated more on the design of the structure, seeking to expand each possibility, while his brother consulted a notebook to study the viability of each proposal.

At one point, Erestor entered the room and placed a tray of snacks and drinks on the table. Both brothers just thanked him with a gesture while they remained absorbed in their debate.

“Something is clear”, declared Fingolfin after one of the explanations of Fëanor, “Thranduil will not allow the forest to be cleared.”  
“Any project that we choose, we will have to open a path through the forest. I'm not thinking of destroying it without regard; but we will definitely have to remove trees from the road if we want the pipes to reach the very center of his kingdom. Although ... there may be another way. I have never been in Greenwood; but I understand that Thranduil’s subjects can control the growth of the vegetation with their songs of power. If we can get the trees to fall back in the area where we are working, we will not need to get rid of any of them. The other part of the story is that if we do not want to damage the land, we should not use metal pipes. Clay pipes can be less harmful in this case; but they have the disadvantage that the roots will perforate them after a few years. It may be enough to maintain vigilance over the trees, making sure they do not destroy the installations. I will have to consult with the Kemendili: it is possible that there is some specific song to communicate with the vegetation. After all, we are going to be passing water in remarkable volumes below them: they will inevitably be attracted. Can you make an appointment with Lady Ailinel for tomorrow? I am not sure that she will receive me very well if I present myself alone, taking into account the last time we met before we left for Middle-earth: that female has always had a predilection for you and your broad shoulders. After meeting with her, I'll be ready to leave for Greenwood in two days maximum. It will take me about two weeks to study the terrain ... less, if Thranduil guarantees me a good guide ... and one more week to finish the plans -month and a half to start working. I will take Curufin to help me with the planning part: he inherited your ability to deal with logistics. And Gil: he's good at public relations and had an acceptable relationship with Thranduil's father, right? Also, I have a feeling that those two get along better than they let us see ...”

“That's true”, affirmed Fingolfin.

“Seriously? Did you also ... notice?” Fëanor asked, turning his face to meet his brother's gaze.

 

Words stuck in his throat. Fingolfin watched him with astonished expression, evidencing the delight that listening to him produced. The blue eyes shone as if there were stars trapped in them and a slight smile curved the generous mouth. It was clear that the king had stopped paying attention to the plans much earlier and that during the speech, all his attention was fixed on Fëanor, drinking with his eyes the enthusiasm of his gestures when expressing himself, with his ears the excitement of his warm voice.

Fëanor forgot what they were talking about. He forgot his suspicions that Curufin and Gil were dating. He forgot the clay pipes being pierced by the roots of the trees ... or Lady Ailinel's enraged expression when millennia ago she accused him of being the most selfish creature ever stepped on Valinor. Lady Ailinel was right: Fëanor was selfish to madness. He had been selfish with his mother’s memory, with his father’s love, with his children’s loyalty, with the silmarils ... and now he was it with Fingolfin. It was not a new sensation: he had once wanted his brother to be **his** alone; now…

He held his breath as Fingolfin leaned over to put a hand on his cheek and gently pressed his lips to his.  
For a moment, it was just the delicate pressure of one mouth on the other. Fingolfin pulled back just enough to moisten his lips with the tip of his tongue and kissed him again almost cautiously, nibbling Fëanor's lower lip and licking slowly.  
The older elf allowed himself to be made, breathing hard as he felt his heart rush through his chest. With his eyes closed, he enjoyed the mouth that explored his, requesting permission, before parting his lips and allowing access to the tongue that slowly danced inside his. Only then did he move to face Fingolfin and reach out to support him on the other's hip. Fingolfin's fingers tangled in his hair, disarranging the tall ponytail, stroking the bare neck, playing with the lapels of the dark tunic.

Their bodies united as if attracted by a magnetic force and despite the slowness of the caresses, their sexes found each other through the clothes, hardening more and more with the slight contact.

Fingolfin stepped back and crossed his hands in front of his torso to pull the shirt over his head with a single movement. Fëanor's hands sought his skin, delighting in drawing every detail he knew by heart.

Leaning down, Fëanor traced a trail of kisses along the raised neck, descending to bite at the junction with his shoulder. He licked a nipple and sucked it, getting low moans as a reward and continued his descent through the tense belly until he was on his knees in front of Fingolfin. With trembling hands, he untied the belt and pushed trousers and underwear so that they hung loose from the hips, freeing the rigid sex.

Fingolfin threw back his head and gasped, grateful, when the wet warmth enveloped his shaft. His fingers twitched in the now loose hair of Fëanor and he forced himself to remain motionless while the other pleasure him with his mouth.

It did not take long for the king's hips to follow the rhythm imposed by the hands that squeezed his ass, precipitating him into the ecstatic spiral that exploded in a spout. Gasping raggedly, Fingolfin collapsed on his knees beside his brother, clinging to his shoulders for support while Fëanor kissed him again and again on his naked face and shoulders.

"Fuck me," Fingolfin pleaded harshly, the obscene order even more sensual in his voice, husky with moans. “Fill me with your cock, Fëanáro. Make me beg for more. Make me cry…”  
“You're driving me crazy”; growled Fëanor, pushing him to the ground to rip off his pants.

Quickly, without waiting for another word, without looking away from the male lying on the floor with his legs lustfully open, Fëanor ripped off his tunic and struggled with his fly. He did not take the trouble to undress completely: with his pants open enough for his member to be proudly erect, he placed himself between Fingolfin's thighs and took him by the hips to raise him slightly.

Fingolfin tensed against the invasion, pain tearing and burning. Fëanor stopped, panting, worry twitching at his beautiful features.

“It's too much?” he interrogated. “Tell me if it is -tell me if I stop ...”  
“Don’t!” ordered the younger, pulling his shoulders to prevent him from moving away. “Con –continue –I want -I want you -I want to feel you ...”

Fëanor gritted his teeth and moved slowly, just a little farther, fighting against the pressure in his temples as he forced himself to hurt his lover as little as possible.

A moan escaped them both when there was no space between them, their bodies perfectly meshed. For a moment, they immobilized (the pulsation of Fëanor's cock inside Fingolfin the only sign of life in their tense bodies). 

“Move”, the king commanded. “For all the fucking Valar, move, Fëanáro!”  
“As my king commands”, Fëanor half-smiled, amused.

After a few moments, they were immersed in the frantic rhythm of their bodies seeking and adjusting. The force of the thrusts unleashed wet echoes in the room, reverberating along with Fingolfin’s moans and Fëanor’s anxious gasps.

They rolled on the ground so that the elder lay on his back on the cold flagstones while the son of Indis mounted him with impetus. Fëanor's fingers were digging into Fingolfin's hips as the fingernails of the latter traced furrows in Fëanor's chest.

“I love you“, gasped Fëanor, feeling the pleasure pulse in his veins.  
“More than your stones?” Fingolfin laughed, leaning forward so that his hair would fall around them like a silk curtain, continuing to climb up and down on the hard cock that pounded his prostate with each thrust.  
“More”, roared the older fiercely while tangled a hand in his hair to pull him to his mouth. ”More than life itself. More than my children. More than father.”

Each statement was accompanied by an onslaught that invaded more ... until Fingolfin abandoned himself to the violent tremors that accompanied his second orgasm. Fëanor roared against his chest letting go too.

 

They collapsed on the floor, tangled in a confusion of sweaty limbs, their ragged breaths filling the room as much as the smell of sex. Fingolfin's fingers played languidly in Fëanor's hair, who turned his head to kiss the arm resting on his shoulder. Gently, he bit the inside of his brother’s forearm from the elbow to the bare wrist.

“I love you above all else too”, confessed Fingolfin, in a hoarse voice.  
“I know”, admitted the older without turning to look at him. “That's why I cannot be near you now. This…”  
“This would happen too easily”, concluded by him. “I need you. I need you to know that I did not choose the throne above you. It's -it's temporary. I'm arranging everything so we can be free.”  
“I know”, he smiled and this time he did move to look into his eyes. “I'm going to Greenwood because you ask me to do it. And because it is the best thing for both to put distance between us. You need ... to give an image right now and I -you know I'm a lousy actor. I could not stand ... I cannot stand being near you and not touching you. Not touching you like this, " he clarified, sliding his fingertips down the side of Fingolfin’s body, from armpit to hip.  
“I miss you”, said Fingolfin, smiling a sad smile. “Not only this. Also ... also your stupidities and your children at all times invading my house. I miss every second together.”  
“So, let's fix this so we can talk about our future.” He pulled him to squeeze him against his chest. “I'm so sorry I was an idiot the other day, " he whispered next to Fingolfin's ear. “I'm so sorry I did not listen to you when you said you love me.”  
“It's me who should apologize this time”, replied the youngest, his voice muffled by hiding his face in the neck of his brother. “I should have waited to see you before making a decision -But I thought -I didn’t think everything would happen that fast. I did not think that Finarfin ...”  
“I know. I also thought he was mad only when it came to me.”  
“Finarfin is not my only concern right now.”  
“At least you got rid of those two birds of ill omen.”

Fingolfin took a deep breath and rubbed against Fëanor's chest as he fluttered his hips. Fëanor's sex, still half inside him, hardened, causing a hiss in both.

“Stay tonight with me”, asked Fingolfin.  
“Will not there be rumors tomorrow?” Fëanor frowned, fighting against the need to move inside him.  
“Better that they get an idea”, he replied before kissing him fiercely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * 'He told you he loved you and gave his life for you' : Well, this sounded better in Spanish: it's a saying of my country about when someone promises us a lot and does little: "me dijo que amaba y que por mí la vida daba". I thought it was funny that precisely Aredhel said it.


	30. Chapter 30

As it had become customary, Fëanor was finishing of braiding his hair when the young Sylvan who was assigned his attention knocked on the door. The prince ordered him to enter speaking the boy's dialect, which he had learned during those months working together.

“Taerendur, you’ve arrived earlier”, Fëanor greeted the boy.  
“And yet, I find you ready to leave, my lord”, smiled the other, leaving on a table the Prince's breakfast.  
“Today are the final tests. If everything works, in a month, your people will have enough water to waste it, " he said with a smile. Immediately, he raised an eyebrow, as if reflecting on his words and replied: “Not that I advise you to waste water, of course. Caranthir would have something to tell me just for that suggestion. What I mean, my dear Taerendur, is that ...”  
“I understood, Your Highness”; the young elf laughed softly. “After everuthing you have done to guarantee the precious liquid to our people, I doubt that you are inclined to waste it.”  
“It was worth every minute of effort, boy. There is nothing that compares to the glorious moment when you see your work’s fruit.”  
“I can imagine it.”  
“You could taste it if you accepted my invitation and you would accompany me to Tirion as my apprentice.”  
“I am afraid that among the Golodhrim my little talent would go unnoticed.”

Fëanor gave him a haughty look.

“Who are you to discuss the judgment of the greatest of the Noldorin craftsmen? If I say you have talent ... you have talent, boy.”  
“Maybe I'll accept your invitation in a few years. I still don’t reach the age of majority ...”  
“The younger you start the better. But if you prefer to stay here and help feed squirrels -I will not press you. Either way, I'll have my hands full when I get back home, " he concluded with a roguish twinkle in his silver eyes.  
“This morning Your Honor seems to be lighter than in previous days.”

 

'His Honor' smiled more broadly. He could not share with the teenager the reason for his joy that morning. During the year that he had been away from Tirion, Fëanor had received on several occasions the pleasant surprise of being contacted by Fingolfin through the use of ósanwë. Each time his half-brother’s fëa touched his (enveloping and caressing with the freshness of a creek on the mountain) Míriel's son felt renewed his hope and feelings. No letter had come from the High King for him; but some nights, Fëanor was able to feel his lover's body curl up on his back, or his soft lips brush under the ear. Without a solidly established link, the craftsman was aware that reaching him for more than a thousand miles cost a good effort and a large amount of energy from Fingolfin. One night even, Fingolfin had gone to the point of sacrificing his rest to provoke a delicious and earthquaker orgasm (Fëanor had felt slightly guilty the next day: while he was floating in the clouds of the post-climax, Fingolfin must surely face a government day with eye bags). In recent weeks, however, Fingolfin had kept his distance. When Fëanor had anxiously initiated the contact, he had received only a slight caress and a push back into his body. As was his custom, the artisan had overturned his frustration at work, forcing the workers to do extra hours until Prince Legolas reminded him - politely - that 99% of the elves did not have Fëanor’s vitality. Finally, the day before - after two days without falling asleep - Fëanor was pleasantly surprised by the blue and silver light that coiled around his igneous fëa. In a first impulse, he wanted to reject the contact; but the freshness that purred, rubbing against the unresisting walls of his mind, brought down any opposition. Again, Fingolfin had caressed and teased his spirit through the mental connection - sending such sensual images that Fëanor even wondered what books his brother exactly read in Beleriand - until the ecstasy soaked his thighs and belly. After exhausting his energies so deliciously, Fëanor considered cleaning himself; but in the end he preferred to sleep with the evidence of nocturnal contact drying on his skin and on his sheets.

Hence, that morning, the prince of the Noldor had left the bed earlier so as not to be surprised as a teenager visited by erotic dreams. In addition, after so many days with the mood of a Naugrim whose reef was stolen, Fëanor once again showed his radiant smile and his best way.

“I slept well”, replied Fëanor after a few seconds, squinting.  
“Pleasant daydreams?” suggested the teenager, with naivety.  
“Oh yeah. I dreamed that I snuggled up with my favorite cat.”  
“You have a cat?” Taerendur raised his eyebrows. “You never mentioned it. Why did not you bring it with you?”  
“Mhm ... my cat cannot get away from home for now. There is ... a plague of rodents to control.”  
“I do not think it would have been a big problem just to bring it ...”  
“My cat is very responsible with his duties, elfling. He would have been meowing all the time.”  
“You love him very much, don’t you?”  
“It's ... a very affectionate cat. And I love to feel him purr in my lap.”  
“I never thought you had such a weakness for cats, sir.”  
“I did not think about it before I owned this either”, Fëanor smiled, imagining Fingolfin's expression if he knew that he was been compared to a cat. “Now, boy; enough chatter. We have to work. I want to see those pipes working as soon as possible.”  
“You are anxious to return home”, laughed Taerendur. “Do you miss that cat so much?”  
“So much ... that I'm willing to marry him.”

Sylvan adolescent’s laughter welcomed the declaration of the prince of Tirion.

 

A howl of jubilation broke out in the circle of workers dressed in gray and brown clothes as the stream of limpid water gushed out in full power through the main pipe, filling the tank located in the center of the cavern. Despite this first victory, Fëanor did not allow himself to be swept away by the euphoria and he used the communication tubes to confirm with the inspectors stationed all along the route that there were no leaks or drips. Only when each of the fifty-seven sentinels confirmed the absolute success of the installation, the Noldo allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. Noticing his expression, a new hubbub broke out among the workers.

Eleven months and two days had taken to build the hydraulic infrastructure. At least another month and a half to ensure that every home in Greenwood had running water ... and Fëanor could return home, to Tirion ... to Fingolfin. If someone wanted to scream and howl with joy ... it was him.

For half an hour, the Prince shook hands full of dirt, received hugs (Sylvan elves were much more tactile than the Noldor, definitely) and returned compliments with ease. Moving at ease among the working class was one of Fëanor's qualities. Unlike Fingolfin - who was always the 'King who is one of us' - Finwë's firstborn was truly one of them. Fëanor was a worker, an artisan imbued with the need to work and the satisfaction of seeing his work finished. Only when he dismissed his subordinates, ordering them to take the rest of the day to celebrate - and after closing the valves so as not to have to leave vigilantes taking care of filling the tank - did Fëanor leave the tunnel to find himself outdoors.

His first instinct was to inhale as deep as he could, swelling his lungs, and in his heart, he murmured: _'One more month, tyenya. Only one more month.'_

He had decided that morning, with his seed still dry on the inside of his thighs and on his abdomen, lying on his back on the bed without opening his eyes: as soon as he returned, he was going to give the ring to Fingolfin. It did not matter if they had to hide their relationship for a thousand years: in order to make sure that Fingolfin belonged to him, he would wait. Even more important, Fingolfin had to know that he belonged to him in body and soul. With a compromise between them, Fingolfin would never fear that Fëanor would abandon him.

Opening his eyes again, the prince frowned as he saw the figure waiting at the side of the entrance.

The she-elf wore a simple outfit composed of brown leggings, dark green shirt, foliage-colored sleeveless vest and comfortable leather boots. Her dark-mahogany hair was in a thick braid that hung down to her waist. Any know-nothing would have taken her for a member of the Border Guard (as the elite forces of King Thranduil were still called in honor of the guards who fought in Greenwood against the darkness of Dol Guldur); but Fëanor knew the female well enough to be confused.

Quickly, he approached her and bowed, while saying:

“My queen…”

The female, whose youth was accentuated by the slender and petite physique of her laegrim blood, swayed uncomfortably from one foot to the other. The only detail that betrayed her rank was the fine diadem of mithril and emeralds that adorned her temples, accentuating her dark green eyes’ brightness.

“How ridiculous”, she whispered after a moment. “After so many years, I still can’t get used to being called like that.”

Fëanor smiled, condescending, as he straightened.

“You know you're a queen, right, Lady Tauriel? The Queen of Greenwood”, he reminded her with the tone he would use to address Aredhel.

_Maybe not Aredhel_ , Fëanor reflected, imagining his niece's face if she heard him being paternalistic. More like talking to Amrod and Amras, probably.

“Funny”, Tauriel huffed, raising an eyebrow. “If it were not for this”, pointed to the diadem, of evident dwarven invoice, “nobody would notice it. I am still the captain of the guard in general.”  
“I'm sure Thranduil would love to hear that marriage has not changed you.”

The young woman made a mocking sound.

In the months that Fëanor had been there - and despite the fears of his relatives - he had developed a good friendship with the royal family. Légolas was an adorable boy, who got along with everyone; the youngest sons of the king were two adorable children full of curiosity; the queen was a beautiful creature of frank manners ... and Thranduil -Thranduil was manageable once you got to know him. Fëanor had first congeniated with the Sylvan queen that Thingol had despised: her unwillingness to behave like a lofty lady, her sincere and kind character, the stories that ran of her bravery and ability ... everything had been added so that the Noldo could feel inclined in her favor.

Naturally, the growing companionship between Noldóran's envoy and his wife had provoked the displeasure of the King of Greenwood; but there had been the patient Elrond and the lovely Celebrian to deal with the outbursts of their friend. Just in case, Fëanor had taken the trouble to make it clear to Thranduil that his heart was busy, tied and secured.  
In the end, it had been the queen who assumed the task of keeping abreast of the advances in the construction of the aqueduct, taking advantage of the occasion to flee from the court.

“I heard that the test was a success”, commented Tauriel, walking along with Prince Noldorin.  
“Resounding”, he smiled, proud.  
“So, we are in the final phase ...”  
“In little more than a month we will be ready to start the whole system. Thranduil will not be able to complain about his Noldorin allies.”  
“Certainly, High King Fingolfin knew what he was doing when he sent you here.”  
“Of course he knew it”, half-smiled Fëanor, distractedly. “Not for nothing he is the Noldóran.”  
“You always sound so proud when you talk about him”, raised her eyebrows. “This is not how I remember the stories.”  
“Stories ... exaggerate many times, lady Tauriel.”  
“In this case…?”  
“In our case ... they don’t. They do not exaggerate. But Nolvo and I have overcome everything. Now ... now we are as inseparable as the hammer and the anvil.”  
“Well ... I think you'll see the anvil sooner than you suppose”, the young she-elf sighed, with a nonchalant expression.  
“How do you say?” He frowned.  
“A letter from Tirion has arrived. In ten days, the wedding of Celebrimbor and Finduilas will be celebrated, and the Crown Princess Findis Finwiel expects you to attend the celebration.”  
“The princess…?”  
“You did not know?” Tauriel confused, stopping to turn in front of him. “Findis has been named Crown Princess a month ago. Within three days she will be crowned as High Queen of the Noldor, when the abdication of Fingolfin becomes effective.”  
“Abdication ?!” Fëanor exclaimed, in a fog of daze.  
“Well ... basically, Findis has accepted the throne in exchange for committing his older brother to be her legitimate heir and that in case she does not conceive her own heirs, the crown will go to Fingolfin’s house once more. As has been established, the line of succession is Fingolfin, Fingon, Gil-galad, Aredhel, Lomion, Idril, Elrond ... the twins ... and we should include the children of Idril and Lomion ... twins too, by the way. Lómetari and Narmacil, by their paternal names.”  
“Twins? When…?”  
“I think you've been too focused on your work, Prince Fëanor”, the queen shook her head. “Lord Elrond gave you the news of children’s birth; but you only dispatched him with a gesture of your hand. By the way, did you know that Turgon was excluded from the line of succession? His children after reincarnation could be included if Elenwë approves; but the princely title of his father will be kept until the children reach the age of majority.” She reflected a moment. “Of course you did not know: you did not even know that your brother will abdicate in a few days!”  
"I'm sure I would have remembered that if Elrond had mentioned it," Fëanor replied irritably. “Why the hell did not he tell me? He knew that I would want to know something like that! What the hell is he playing now?”

Tauriel watched him, disoriented.

“I think you mean your brother, because Elrond -Lord Elrond does not owe you explanations.”  
“Of course I mean Nolofinwë!” Fëanor roared. “He should have called me by his side right away!”  
“Probably he suspected that you would think that way and wanted you to finish your work here.”  
“He knows I ...!”  
“Don’t care about anything to be at his side? I think you're pretty obvious. Already his abdication has provoked some ... unfavorable reactions. Many are in favor of Fingolfin being King of the Noldor for ever and ever. You are not interested in politics and if my husband did not need to talk to someone after a whole day of running a kingdom, I wouldn’t be interested either. I try to keep up to date so I can follow the conversation. I have other news: Fingolfin will not withdraw from politics. After abdicating, he’ll take a rest time; but around him a political party has grouped that reunites to numerous followers coming from other parties. I think they're called ... 'Yanwelië'. No matter that Fingolfin doesn’t return to being the Noldóran, he will never return to his old life.”

Fëanor pressed his lips together. He had suspected that this would happen. He had suspected that once his half-brother came back to savor the taste of politics (for which he was educated from early childhood) he could not abandon it now. In his heart, he knew it was best for the Noldor. His people would feel safe if he knew that Fingolfin was still taking care of them.

The 'bridge people'. A smile graced the prince's lips: that name was surely idea of Maglor's romantic being. Fingon would probably have called them 'the Exiles' or the 'Outcasts'. Or the 'Dropouts'. Without a doubt, it was a good name and paid tribute to what Fingolfin had done throughout his life (two lives): create alliances, build bridges, arrange ties that safeguard the welfare of the people under his responsibility.

“I know”, he admitted, defeated. “I know it's been a long time since Nolvo stopped being just mine.”

Tauriel watched him, confused and amused. It was hard to imagine that this big boy pouting and kicking the ground was the same elf that in the songs led the First Kinslaying, faced balrogs, created the silmarils ... betrayed the brother he was whimpering for now. In the background, all the great elves were spoiled children.

"Even if he dedicates his life to the service of his people, I think he will have enough time to consecrate you, Prince Fëanor," she said softly.  
“Enough ... it's not enough”, he denied stubbornly. “But I guess I'll have to be content. I must prepare to leave ... I have to assemble the engineers and the shift bosses, and explain every detail before -hell, I could never get there in time for Findis’s coronation.”  
“I think she's aware of that.”  
“It's not because of her. Nolvo needs me by his side ... it will take at least a week to organize everything… and two or three days for the return trip -I will hardly arrive for the wedding!” He frowned even more, pacing the path from side to side, abstracted. “Also, I need to leave someone in charge of the work. If there is a problem, they cannot wait for me to return. Faerthurin is very good at following orders; but he has no initiative: he's a good second-best. Lhenniloth does a good job with the papers; but definitely cannot work on site ...”  
“How about the redhead who brought the materials three months ago?” suggested Tauriel.

Fëanor stopped suddenly, as if he did not remember her presence.

“Urundil? Is he still around here?”  
“He’s studying the structure of aerial platforms. I think he's quite aware of the work on the aqueduct.”  
“Urundil is mad”, smiled Fëanor. Immediately, the smile vanished from his lips, giving way to an expression of inner illumination. “And he is a genius. Urundil always solves problems that no one else understands. His solutions are crazy; but effective. In addition, any project assigned to him is taken seriously. You're right, Lady Tauriel: Urundil will be in charge of the work. Faerthurin and Lhenniloth will help him in whatever is necessary. Maybe ...” he pouted; “maybe I should warn Thranduil that in the end his aqueduct may have musical pipes. Or be able to send an alert when the tanks are emptying ... That would be very helpful ...” he reflected.  
“All right. Why don’t you consider it for your next visit? You have to fix a few details before returning. By the way, Urun ... Urundil is not Lord Celebrimbor's uncle too? I'm afraid he'll want to attend the wedding.”  
“Urundil?” laughed Fëanor . “He did not even go to my wedding with Nerdanel. Now I have to find him: he will probably be trying to take flight from the top of a tree.”  
“I do not think so -he only has notebooks and pencils with him. The messenger who brought the invitation is still in the palace: do you want to send a letter to someone?”  
“Yes. I have the answer to Nerdanel's last letter and I will write a note for Maedhros.”  
“Eh ... I was referring to ... the king.”  
“No. Nolvo already knows that I'm going back”, half-smiled prince, confident.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

“Mom!”

Hyellemaitë jumped and cursed under her breath. With a sulky expression, she stared furiously at the thread of gold that had once been thin and long ... and now it looked as if it had caught a cat’s attention.

“Here!” she replied to her daughter while concentrating on trying to recover the golden thread.  
“Ah! You're working “, said Nerdanel as she crossed the threshold of the workshop.  
“That's what I try to do,” growled the elder she-elf without diverting attention from her delicate recovery work.

After a few minutes in which Nerdanel walked from one side of the workshop to the other, touching tools, her mother sighed contentedly and asked:

“What happen?”  
“Nothing happens, Mom”, Nerdanel laughed: her face the allegory of innocence.  
“You are flitting from side to side like the butterfly that does not want the pumpkin flower.”**  
“Pfft! Don’t be ridiculous. I'm just looking.”  
“Speak at once: I'm too old to play guessing games anymore. Did they elect you as president of the cloister of the Arts Academy?”  
“N-noo”, denied the sculptress, emphatically.  
“Did they approve your motion to create a school of sculpture and modeling for therapeutic purposes? No, wait ... that idea is from Caranthir, not yours.”  
“Mother!”  
“I know! They allowed you to represent Nessa naked on that mural ...”  
“It was Vána who was naked. And no, it's nothing like that. You will never guess it!” she concluded, clapping her hands like a little girl.

Hyellemaitë raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

“Fëanáro”, she understood. “What isn’t he in Greenwood, building a dam?”  
“An aqueduct, mom. And he’ll come back for Tyelpë's wedding. I received his letter this morning. He will leave Urundil at the head of the works ...”  
“What does an aqueduct have to do with flying?”  
“Mother, my brother is very good at building things ...”  
“Things that crash.”  
“Pipes don’t fly.”  
“Until now”, sighed Hyellemaitë, worried so much by the poor subjects of Thranduil as by her son.  
“The case is”, continued Nerdanel, ignoring her mother’s apprehension, “that Fëanáro will return in a few days and then ...”  
“Then?” her mother invited her to continue.  
“Then you will convince yourself that he loves me and that we are destined to be together.”

Mahtan's wife gasped. With an effort, she managed to say:

“Istarwen, dear girl, I suggest you don’t rush. What if you wait to talk to him to do something crazy? If you rush to draw conclusions, you could put Fëanáro in an awkward situation -and you know how he reacts to the pressure ...”  
“Mom, I'm not going to do anything. He is going to ask me to renew the vows.”  
“Why are you so sure?  
"Because he wrote it to Maitimo.”  
“He…? I mean, Maitimo told you?”  
“No. But together with the letter for me, there was a note for Maitimo.”  
“And you read it? Nerdanel, your son is an adult elf since before Anar rose for the first time ...”  
“Ah-ah-ah ... I read it by mistake. But I'm glad I did it. Do you know what Fëanor wrote?”  
“ _Don’t let your mother read this note_?” Suggested Hyellemaitë, winning a grimace of her only daughter.

However, Nerdanel's joy returned immediately.

“ _Prepare the party: we will have another wedding very soon._ ” she recited with eyes bright with joy.

Hyellemaitë held her breath.

“He could be referring to Tyelkormo and Irissë”, she proposed. “According to the twins, they already talk like normal elves.”  
“Mother, he refers to us”, Nerdanel smiled, exultant. “We will recover all the time we lost and this time -this time I will not let him escape.”

Mentally, Hyellemaitë raised a prayer to Mandos, so that he would have compassion for her poor nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Lómetari: twilight queen. (q)  
> * Narmacil: flame-sword (q)  
> * Taerendur: servant of the wood. (s)
> 
> ** 'the butterfly that does not want the pumpkin flower': a nursery rhyme of my country: 'What happens to the butterfly that doesn't rest on the pumpkin flower? Will the butterfly be stupid? Or what the fuck is wrong with it?' In Spanish: 'Qué le pasa a la mariposa que no se posa en la flor de la calabaza? Será boba la mariposa? O qué carajos le pasa?' Usually used when someone goes from one place to another, not knowing what to do.


	31. Chapter 31

“Why do I have to wear green and red?” Angrod yelled, causing the servants to stop midway through their labors. “Those colors don’t suit me! They make me look like a parrot!”

“You?” scoffed Aegnor . “Imagine how I look with this hair.”  
“I don’t care how you look”, replied Orodreth without raising his voice.”We are going to wear these colors because they are the colors of fertility and we are wishing a prosperous union with my daughter. End of the question.”  
“The Fëanorion are going to wear blue and white”, said the son of Angrod, who was sitting by the window.  
“Arothir, nobody asked for your opinion”, Orodreth silenced him. “Green and red for the bride's family, I said.”  
“Does Galadriel agree with ...?”  
“Galadriel will dress in the style of Thingol court. She comes as a guest, not as a member of the family. We will all be men around my daughter.”  
“Haru will come?” Arothir ventured, cautiously.  
“No. Although Olórin assured me on the last visit that the worst is over, he still has some hallucinations due to the withdrawal syndrome.”  
“Good news is that in a few months we can bring him home”, said Aegnor.  
“You mean you aren’t coming to Alqualondë with me?” Angrod frowned.  
“Your son will go with you. Orodreth and I will take care of father. At least while recovering.”  
“Celebrían and Elrond have also offered their help. Both are recognized healers, versed in both the spirit and the body.” Orodreth informed. “Finduilas and Celebrimbor wanted to help too; but it's not fair that we steal them time together.”  
“Especially in the first years of marriage. Tell me, Artaresto, did you ever think that your daughter would marry a Fëanorion?”

Orodreth made a nonchalant pout.

“Celebrimbor always deserved my respect”, he declared. “It’d have been a problem if Finduilas had fallen in love with Curufin or Celegorm. Although we can live together for a few hours, I can’t imagine myself as the father-in-law of one of those two.”  
“Uncle Fingolfin has a lion’s heart. I would have kicked their asses from Tirion to Formenos instead.”  
“I really thought about doing it.”

The four young elves turned to meet Fingolfin at the threshold of the room.  
The High King entered the bedroom and approached one of the red suits with green ribbons that hung from a hanger.

“Interesting combination”, he pointed with a raised eyebrow.

Angrod turned to his older brother and modulated quietly 'I told you so.' Orodreth ignored him with masterly calmness.

“Why didn’t you do it?” inquired Arothir, who having died in his first life when he was barely past five centuries, still saw his great uncle as a giant of legends. “Kicking Fëanorion’s asses, I mean.”  
“I should have followed them walking to Formenos”, explained the king with logic. “Too much effort for an old elf like me.”  
“Uncle ... Majesty ...”  
“You can call me 'uncle', Aegnor. I thought I made that clear a year ago. Besides, I will not be king for many more hours”, he reminded them with a cocked smile.  
“Tomorrow will be a sad day for the Noldor”, said Orodreth.  
“Nonsenses. Tomorrow they are going to release queen: it will be an unforgettable party.”  
“And you'll go on vacation.”  
“That is.”  
“Uncle”, Aegnor called again; “what color will Fingon wear at the wedding?”  
“Fingon?Bblue and silver, of course. It is our livery.”  
“Oh hells”, mumbled Angrod.  
“Enough you two”, exploded Orodreth. “It is my daughter who gets married and I decide what color her courtship will wear. Red and green.”

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow, amused by the discouraged expressions of his two younger nephews, who looked at him with puppy eyes.

“It's his daughter”, repeated the king, raising his hands in surrender. “Also, see the positive side: nobody will forget this wedding.”

Angrod and Aegnor moaned scandalously.

 

Hours later, Fingolfin still laughed when he remembered his nephews’ faces. It was really fun to see how the sweet and delicate Orodreth dominated his tall, stocky younger brothers to the point of treating them like well-trained pets.

The Noldóran had finished reviewing the documents corresponding to his abdication. In a folder covered in lavender-dyed leather (the color of Findis's livery) were the papers of the succession, duly signed by all.

Fingolfin glanced at several folders tied with silk ribbons and considered taking a look at them. He dismissed the idea: in less than twelve hours, those matters would concern the new _High Queen Findis Noldotári._

He consulted the table clock that Caranthir gave him a few weeks ago: it was almost an hour before the last meal and there was nothing left for him to do. Everything was ready for his retirement. In a week, he would be on his way to Alqualondë to see his great-grandchildren for the second time and Eru willing, Fëanor would go with him. He had everything planned: he would rent a boat, they would paddle up to Tol Eressea and there, under the stars (the same stars whose names Fëanor taught him when he was a boy) he would ask him for marriage.

With a smile dancing on his lips, Fingolfin opened the drawer of the desk and removed the dark red velvet case. Slowly, he untied the cord and turned the contents in his hand. He placed the two bracelets on the table.

Identical, made of mithril, the bracelets showed the eight-pointed star of Fëanor, surrounded by the stars of the House of Fingolfin, similar to snowflakes. The engraving was so subtle that at first glance it was almost invisible: only from certain angles could the delicate work be appreciated. Tiny black pearls traced parallel lines on both sides of the engraving. Inside the jewels were inscribed the names of both, in tengwar and in sarati.

Fingolfin was not a remarkable artisan; but he had put all his effort into the pair of bracelets and, although it was wrong to boast, the result was worth it. Fëanor would like them: especially because no one who saw them would doubt they were engagement jewels. But Fingolfin had another surprise reserved for his half-brother: when they got married, instead of changing the bracelets for others, Fingolfin would give Fëanor the pride of seeing his shield engraved in Fingolfin’s own skin, over his heart.

He’d already seen the details with Araxáne. The 'storyteller’ had been confused that the Noldóran wanted to engrave another male's shield on his skin - not because of the problem of sex; but because she did not conceive that the most powerful warrior wished to bow down to someone else -; but then she had smiled amused and had agreed to be the one to make the Aran-i-Heleg tattoo.

A knock on the door of the study made Fingolfin hurry to hide the bracelets: nobody was supposed to see them before Fëanor.

Without waiting for his answer, Erestor opened and entered just as the king kept the velvet box in the inside pocket of the night blue tunic.

“Erestor!” Fingolfin was surprised. “You were not with Findis?”  
“The Princess retired an hour ago. I was looking at the details of the banquet and checking that the rooms for the guests are ready.”  
“Do we have many guests?” the king frowned. “We did not expect anyone to come in for a week.”  
“Some have preferred to get ahead to enjoy the two festivities.”  
“Some…?”  
“Queen Eärwen and Lady Anairë will arrive in the early hours of the day. The closure of the annual regatta held them longer than expected in Alqualondë.”  
“Tomorrow?! At dawn?! Then they are at Tirion’s gates! Send someone to receive them.”  
“ Lord Glorfindel awaits them in a camp with all the amenities to spend the night.”  
“Ah ... Eärwen’d kill me if I do not treat her properly.”  
“Lady Anairë would not allow it”, half-smiled the secretary.  
“Lucky me. Who else?”  
“The representatives of the Seven Tribes will be present at the coronation: Daeris Silver Voice has confirmed her attendance.”  
“Seriously?” Fingolfin's eyes shone with childish enthusiasm. “Oh heavens! I love that female. She’s a tigress and beautiful as the images of Nienna that the Avari made.”  
“You will have time to enjoy your company: she comes for you and not for Findis. She made it clear in her message. Maybe she wants to marry you this time.”  
“Daeris is not one to marry”, smiled Fingolfin, mischievously.  
“Well, then she wants to repeat the alliance ceremony in Beleriand.”  
“Tomorrow I will not be king anymore.”  
“But you'll still be a good match for a ruler. On the other hand, Ingwion and Master Rúmil have confirmed their arrival.”  
“And my mother?”  
“ Lady Indis sends her regards, invites you to rest at home; but she has issues that prevent him from leaving her home at this time. She waits for you after the wedding.”  
“Did she say that?”  
“Yep. And it does not seem like an invitation.”  
“I'll go through there on the way to Alqualondë.”  
“Eh ... the Supreme King Ingwë has confirmed that he will come to the wedding. We prepare the east wing for him.”  
“Too many rooms: he does not usually travel with a lot of retinue. As the situation goes, we will need the largest possible space to host the guests.”  
“I'll check that out tomorrow after the coronation”, Erestor nodded. “Lord Beleg and Lord Mablung have written, announcing their presence. Also Oropher, Daeron and Círdan have accepted the invitations. Lord Denethor and Lord Lenwë ...”  
“By Aulë’s beards, Erestor!” Exclaimed Fingolfin, jumping to his feet. “Are you reciting a list of all the elves that inhabit Valinor?”  
“Only those who have confirmed their attendance at the wedding. Speaking of Ainur ... Olórin, Aiwëndil, Pallando, Alatar ... Eonwë ... and several maiar have communicated their intention ...”  
“The wedding of Celebrimbor will last in the memory of our people”, declared the king, letting out a whistle.  
“Lord Celebrimbor has many friends. And Lady Finduilas is one of the favorite ladies in our songs. In addition, many of these guests will take the opportunity to pay their respects to the new sovereign.”  
“Which reminds me that you should be discussing this with my sister; no with me. Erestor, it's time to eat. We are going to…”

A discreet knock on the door interrupted his words. Fingolfin frowned: it was too late for someone not belonging to the family to look for him ... and none of his relatives would knock on the door before breaking in, obviating the protocol.  
Erestor went to open and almost expressed his astonishment when he saw the visitor.

“Master Mahtan”, said Fingolfin, identifying the red crown of the Aulendil over the shoulder of his secretary.  
"Majesty, Lord Erestor," Mahtan saluted, bowing. “I request your indulgence for presenting me so late; but ... I really need you to attend to me, my lord.”  
“Did something happen in the mines?” Fingolfin went forward, frowning. “Come in, Mahtan. Speak: whatever it is, we will find a solution ...”  
“ I'm glad you think that way, sir”; smiled the master craftsman, embarrassed. “Actually, it's a personal matter that brings me here.”

“I retire, Majesty”, Erestor intervened, perceiving the visitor's restlessness. “I'll say put another place for Master Mahtan.”  
“I ... I've already eaten, Lord Erestor. Thank you”, smiled the aforementioned, nervously.

Fingolfin instructed his friend to make him prepare a snack and take him to his rooms. After the secretary retired, the king took a seat opposite Mahtan.

 

For a few minutes, Fingolfin watched Mahtan play with the cuffs of his shirt.

“Then, Master Mahtan”; said at last, taking the initiative, “what has happened in your house that you come to see me? Do you need to return to Formenos? You know you did not have to come and ask for permission for that. You are not required to be present at the ceremony ...”  
“With all due respect, Majesty, that's not why I'm here. Yes I received one -a message from my wife; but it is not necessary to return to Formenos.”  
“A message from Hyellemaitë?” Fingolfin worried, leaning forward.  
“Nothing serious, of course. She -she's just worried. About Nerdanel.”

Instead of soothing it, Mahtan's detours only excited the king's curiosity more.

“Nerdanel? I thought your sons were the troublemakers, Mahtan”; he smiled.  
“Sometimes I would prefer that Nerdanel also wanted to fly,” the blacksmith sighed.  
“If you had a daughter like Aredhel, you would think differently.”  
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Nerdanel is a wonderful daughter. Except when it comes to Fëanáro.”

Fingolfin felt a weight descend on his shoulders.

“My brother? I thought they were on good terms”; he commented, cautiously.  
“Too good, according to her. Both my wife and I have tried to talk with Nerdanel, make her understand that she is wrong, that she is seeing ... ghosts where there are none -but she is determined that this time -Already before Fëanáro went to Greenwood, Hyellemaitë told me which ones was our daughter's impressions of her relationship with your older brother, sir; but we decided to wait. From our point of view, it did not seem that Fëanáro had the same ideas as her. However, she continues to behave as if there really was hope ...”  
“Mahtan”, interrupted Fingolfin with a tense smile; “I do not understand what you are talking about. Explain yourself. And tell me why you came to see me.”

The leader of the Aulendili observed him with a worried expression.

“Nerdanel is sure that Fëanor wants to renew the wedding vows”, he released in a hurry.

Fingolfin blinked, bewildered. Where had Nerdanel got that idea? Maybe Fëanor ...?

“Does she have reason to think that way?”  
“Hyellemaitë mentioned a note for Maitimo. And there's also all the time that they've been spending together since before Fëanáro's departure. Nerdanel has even gone to visit him at Greenwood and they have corresponded ... almost weekly. I do not know how much they have ... recovered from their marriage relationship ... it's not like I was going to ask my daughter if she had sex ...”  
“ Of course not”, said Fingolfin, rising to his feet with impetus.

He took a few steps to the window to appease the tightness in his chest. Letters? Visits? He did not know anything about that. Certainly, he and Fëanor had not maintained more communication than the occasions when he used osanwë to contact his brother; but it would never have occurred to him that Fëanor hid something like that from him. Reviewing the previous months, Míriel's son was never the first to seek contact (except that night after the trial of Súrion and Isilendil, in which Fingolfin was too exhausted to even keep his fëa alert).

With an effort, the Finwion controlled his thoughts and turned to his visitor with a smile curving his lips.

“Definitely, I wouldn’t want to have the certainty that my daughter has sexual relations”, he affirmed, with relaxed tone. “Now, what I do not understand, Master Mahtan, is what do you expect when you communicate this to me.”  
“I hope you help me”,the elf sighed. “It is impossible to talk with Nerdanel. I had never seen her so excited. It does not matter how much we remind her how her marriage ended the first time: she assures that Fëanáro and she are made for each other, and that this time everything will turn out well.”  
“Maybe it could be that way.”  
“No. It will not be. Fëanáro has a restless spirit, thirsting for new experiences. Nerdanel is quiet, centered. Once she agreed to follow the likes of her husband and when she could not do it anymore, when she decided to follow her own path ... they separated.”  
“They were happy, Mahtan. You do not remember?”  
“The first years, Nolofinwë. After ... only the children kept them together. There will be no more children among them. What will bind them now? Memory? Maybe your brother thinks that this is the best thing to do, that going back to her is a way to make her feel better for all the pain he caused her; but it will only hurt her more. They will only get hurt each other more. I’m not blind, my lord: my daughter is a magnificent female; but she is not ... strong enough to resist Fëanáro. Fëanáro needs an equal to feel at ease, someone who is a challenge at the same time as a refuge. Nerdanel is a good mother; but she is not the best wife in the world. They make a good team; but a terrible couple.”

“What do you want from me, Mahtan?” Fingolfin sighed, returning to his seat.  
“Talk to your brother, Nolofinwë. Make him see that he is wrong. Make him see that renewing the vows is not the best for either of them. Make him see that he cannot make her happy.”  
“You could be wrong”, he replied sadly. “It could be that this time it would be better for them. Both have learned from their mistakes. Fëanáro ... Fëanáro is not the same elf that you knew. He -he has matured, he has learned -he has accepted that he has erred. And he is willing to correct his mistakes. If Nerdanel is -If she is the person that will help him be better, I do not see why I should interfere. She loves him, doesn’t she?”  
“With madness that contradicts her maternal name”, mumbled Mahtan.

Fingolfin smiled softly.

“Love often makes us idiots or crazy”, he said. “We see mirages all the time and we do not see the truth even if we stumble upon it. We cling to illusions that cannot last, that cannot be sustained in the real world.”

Mahtan furrowed his thick eyebrows, sensing the distracted tone of the monarch. Fingolfin noticed his expression and laughed softly.

“I'm sorry”, he said. “I have not had a rest for several days.”  
“It’s me who’s sorry” ; the Aulendil apologized, standing up hastily. “I should have remembered that you are constantly busy and I am here, wanting you to take care of my personal problems.”  
“We are family, Mahtan. Two of your grandchildren are my sons-in-law, " he reminded him.  
“Sir, will you talk to your brother?” Mahtan hesitated.

Fingolfin looked away to the glazed window and watched the twilight through it.

“No”, he denied quietly. “I will not convince Curufinwë to give up on Nerdanel, Mahtan. Sorry. If there is a chance that he will be happy, that he will have peace -I will not force him to reject it. You love your daughter, I love Fëanáro ... I guess we are at a crossroads here”, he smiled, looking back at him. “I'm really sorry. But I'll let Fëanáro make this decision.”

Mahtan pressed his lips together in a line and stroked his curly red beard. After a few seconds, he nodded silently and bowed before retreating.

 

In the corridor, the blacksmith started thinking about the king's words. Maybe Fingolfin was right. Maybe this time it was better for those two. Maybe this time Nerdanel managed to keep Fëanáro ...

“Grandfather!”

He looked up to find Caranthir going in his direction. 

“What are you doing here? Are you looking for Maedhros? It's been a while since he and Fingon went home.”  
“I was talking to the king”, explained Mahtan.  
“Did something happen in Formenos?” his grandson frowned.  
“Did not! I just wanted to talk to him.”  
“About?”  
“ About your parents.”

Caranthir frowned more (his silver-green eyes almost hidden by the shadow of thick black brows).

“My parents”, he repeated. “What's with them? Did they fight at last?”  
“The opposite. According to your mother, relationships between them are the best in the world.”

Caranthir's eyebrows rose and a soft blush colored his cheekbones.

“Haru”, he said, lowering his voice, “tell me you didn’t come to talk with my uncle about mom's hopes.”  
“Hopes?” stammered the eldest. “I have no idea…”  
“Ambarussar told me, right? That mom thinks father wants to marry her.”  
“I don’t know what you're talking about, Moryo”, blushed Mahtan.  
“Haru, we all know that mother is deceiving herself.”  
“Well, I don’t think it's exactly like that, boy. Your father has been very attached to her since his reincarnation, to be honest. They have not discussed once and even she went to visit him in the lands of ...”  
“Did you say that to my uncle?” interrupted Caranthir, paling for the first time since his reincarnation.  
“May be,” Mahtan suggested, baffled by his reaction. “Moryo, why are you asking me that question? Moreover, why are all of you so sure that your mother is deceived about Fëanáro's feelings?”  
“Because my father does want to get married; but not to her, grandpa.”  
“Not to her? So who…? Oh”, he broke off when he understood.  
“Yes: **oh** ”, the younger elf sighed, shaking his head. “By Nienna’s sake, this is a disaster. I'm going to try to talk to my uncle. You -you just try to converse with my mother at some point.”

Mahtan nodded fervently and stepped aside for his grandson to go to the royal office. Left alone, the blacksmith leaned against the wall, dazed.

After a moment, he pulled the bound with his wife.

 _Did you talk to Nolofinwë?_ Inquired Hyellemaitë as soon as he made contact.  
_I did._  
_So?_  
_I think I may have screwed up, Hyelle. No, I'm sure I screwed up._

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Fingolfin ignored the knock on the door. Slowly, he went to the small door hidden by a tapestry and left the office to go to his bedroom through the interior rooms.

Upon arriving at the chamber he occupied during the previous year, he closed the door behind him, making sure it could not be opened from the outside. He ignored the tray with food on the table and went to the bed to fall on it, face down. He rummaged in his pocket to pull out the dark red velvet pouch and put it on the pillow next to him.

Maybe this was a sign of the Valar. If Fëanor had found his place next to Nerdanel, who was he to interpose? They had been a happy, balanced couple. They could be again. With Nerdanel, Fëanor could enjoy the freedom he needed. Fingolfin, on the other hand, had promised to become Crown Prince, leader of a political party. Fëanor would want more: he would want a time and a freedom that he could not give him. It was possible that Fëanor had already understood this truth. Only he had not realized. Only he had continued to cling to illusion, to promises made in the heat of passion. _Only he was still the child who longed for Fëanor’s love._

A tear slipped from the corner of his eyes, silent. Tomorrow, he would be the king who thought of the welfare of others first and as such, he would protect Fëanor from his own selfishness. Tonight, however, he would only be an elf crying over his life’s worst decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Haru: grandfather (q).


	32. Chapter 32

Tirion’s streets were decked out like never before. Fëanor did not remember seeing so much activity and joy in any of his lives - not even when Finwë married a second time. Although perhaps the latter was due to Indis insisting Míriel’s memory be respected during the celebration, the prince recalled while drawing a group of street artists. At that time, the words of his father's new wife had seemed hypocritical, an act to win the sympathy of others; but after getting to really know Fingolfin, Fëanor understood his stepmother much better.

One of the first visits made by Fëanor after being reincarnated went to the house occupied by his father's widow in the outskirts of Valimar. Like Eärwen, Fëanor had apologized for the mistakes he had made in his previous life. With Indis, however, the artisan could not justify his attitude with the madness that dominated him in his last years: in this case, they were pure and selfish jealousy. Indis had behaved as usual, treating him like a spoiled child and assuring him that he had nothing to apologize for.

"We all make mistakes that affect others," she had pointed out gently. “The most important thing is to recognize that we are wrong.”

He had not seen her again, of course. Indis did not leave her refuge and not even Fingolfin came to visit her often. Findis was the closest to her and Fëanor never had a deep relationship with the eldest of his sisters. With none of his sisters, in fact.

While reflecting on his relationship with Indis and her daughters, the prince had arrived at the gate of the royal palace.  
He recognized the blue and white clothes of the guards led by Lord Duilin. The elves in charge of guarding the door also wore a lavender band crossed over the chest. Fëanor looked up to see that the lavender banner with the embroidered moon fluttered in the tower: Findis's shield.

The guards did not stop him, merely nodding to him and in the hall, Fëanor was received by the efficient Herendil.

“Welcome, Grand Prince Fëanor”, the usher greeted him, bowing.  
“Thanks, Herendil. I have come to pay my respects to the new queen and to apologize ...”  
“Her Majesty awaits you. King Thranduil notified us of your return.”

Fëanor followed Herendil.

During the tour, he could see that Findis had not made many changes to the palace in general. Apart from the change of pennants and the presence of more females, it almost seemed that Fingolfin was still king. Fëanor supposed that it was because he remained as counselor and heir to the Queen.

Honestly, more than paying his respects to Findis, Fëanor wanted to meet his half-brother. Arriving at the lake house and not finding it, he remembered that Tauriel - and then Thranduil - had confirmed that Fingolfin would continue to hold a political office, so he supposed he would be at Court with his inseparable Erestor. If Fëanor were less sure of Fingolfin's feelings, he might be jealous of that secretary.

From his first youth in Valinor, Erestor had been stuck to Fingolfin like a barnacle. Erestor was the youngest son of one of Indis's maidens and his father was one of the many scribes in the Library of Tirion. Fëanor remembered the first time that Fingolfin arrived followed by that child with long legs and rebellious hair. The boy barely spoke and when Fëanor spoke to him, he hung on Fingolfin's arm as if he could protect him. Their positions in society had separated the studies of the boys; but they did not weaken their friendship. Fëanor never worried that Erestor could rob him of Fingolfin's affection ... until the day he raised a sword to threaten his half-brother and when Fingolfin left without speaking, who ran next to him was Erestor. No more long legs, no more rebellious hair, no more shortage of words: Erestor was handsome and sure of himself, someone who stayed with Fingolfin when Fëanor walked away.

Fëanor shook his head, dismissing such thoughts. No one could stand between him and Fingolfin. They had circled, they had taken detours, they had retreated and advanced in opposite directions ... but in the end, they had met again.

“Grand Prince Fëanor Finwion”, Herendil announced after opening a door and stepping aside, he gave way to the aforementioned.

Fëanor entered the room and bowed.

“Majesty”, he said , “I apologize for not having arrived in time for your coronation. My congratulations and my regards. I come to offer you my loyalty as a subject ... and my support as a brother.”

A muffled exclamation of astonishment escaped from those present. Fëanor had spoken without straightening up, ignoring who was present.

“ I appreciate your words, Prince Fëanor”, declared Findis in a soft voice. “I accept your loyalty as High Queen and I welcome you as a sister.”

Only then did Fëanor straighten up to see the queen stand up and approach him with outstretched hands. The artisan took the white hands in his and kissed them respectfully. Findis tugged lightly on the grip and for the first time, both siblings melted into a hug.  
For a few seconds, Fëanor was not quite sure what to do with his hands. He was not used to hugging women and did not think it was right to pat the shoulders of the High Queen. Finally, he rested his hands on his sister's back and rested his head on her shoulder.

When they parted, they both looked uncomfortable. Findis smiled with his usual calm expression.

“First time”, she said, softly.  
“Yes. You're having many of those these days, I suppose. First times, I mean.”  
"Well, yes," she admitted, and Fëanor could not help noticing that Findis had the soft, conciliatory character of their father.  
“We have a lot to talk. I'd love to hear from Greenwood: it's a place that fascinates me.”  
“It's a wonderful place. And different in many aspects.”  
“I imagine so: they consider Master Urundil a genius”, commented the queen, raising a golden eyebrow.  
“Do not worry: he is not going to live there. He loves his workshop too much.”  
“I know”, she nodded and moved away a little more, adding aloud: “Come with me to the garden, Brother Fëanor. I look forward to hearing news from our friends at Greenwood.”

Fëanor nodded and started walking beside her, heading for the French window that led to the garden. Behind them came two maids dressed in trousers and waistcoats over shirts with bulky collars.  
As soon as they were beyond the attention of the elves gathered in the room, Findis stopped and let out a faint sigh.

“I pity our brothers”, she confessed. “I didn’t think that governing was such a tedious task. They have had me all morning listening to complaints and suggestions as if I was a health inspector. I don’t know how Káno could handle this by being so active normally.”  
“As Fingon assures, in Beleriand he was on patrol while Erestor did the paperwork.”  
“Oh, but it's not just the legal part. I do not know how many people have come to pay their respects in three days since the coronation. Everyone expects me to remember their names and their personal situations. Lucky Erestor is there, whispering in my ear what I need to know.”  
“He has a notebook, doesn’t he?”  
“Blessed notepad!” Exclaimed the queen, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “And you are the first one with whom I can justify escaping. None of my nephews has had the delicacy to appear today to fulfill his role as a rescuer.”  
“Well, neither was at home either ...”  
“ Everyone is busy, honestly. Maedhros and Fingon are my ambassadors in town. Although they don’t belong to my political party”, the queen smiled with a mischievous expression that highlighted her resemblance to ... Celegorm!. “Caranthir is doing a great job as an administrator, which has won me two arguments with Lalwen ... Incredible, we have discussed more in two days than in five hundred years.”  
“Merit is yours, with certainty.”  
“Well, she has chosen to stay away. Wisely. Finarfin’s sons are organizing the wedding and Curufin and Gil have committed to finish the last details of the bride and groom's house before the wedding.”  
“Still not finished? Finduilas and Tyelpë will have to spend the wedding night in the open field.”  
“I came to think about it; but according to Orodreth they are only reviewing some details.”

Fëanor was about to suggest that they were testing the bed; but he bit his tongue in time. It seemed that almost no one had noticed the true relationship between Curufin and Gil-galad. He himself would not have noticed if it had not been to discover that Celebrimbor had other interests and to have noticed the amount of time that Gil and Curufin spent together. Well, there was also the fact of having surprised them during the first months in Greenwood. An image that Fëanor would never forget, by the way. He had to correct his terrible habit of entering the bedrooms of his children without knocking: that would prevent him from seeing Fingon naked, Aredhel covered in chocolate ... and Curufin alienatedly riding his lover.

“Curvo has always been very fussy”, he said cautiously.

Findis nodded.

Her half-brother took the opportunity to take a look at the maidens who followed them a dozen steps. Although they did not carry weapons, Fëanor noticed that they walked with the agility that only the training allows. One of the elves (tall and with dark hair braided on buns on either side of her head) held her hand to her belt every three steps: Fëanor had seen Fingolfin do that many times, as if he were looking for the sword. The other (shorter and whose silver hair did not extend beyond her chin) leaned slightly as she walked, as if preparing to scuttle or search the ground: an explorer. Both were sindar.

“Watching my escorts? “ inquired Findis when perceiving his interest.  
“They are warriors.”  
“And very good. Rivernil served under Maglor and fell during the Dagor Bragollach. Dinenel was the head of the explorers of Caranthir in Thargelion: she accompanied him to Doriath.”  
“A kinslayer?” Fëanor half-smiled.  
“Even being Sindarin. Surprising, don’t you think? I am fascinated by that degree of loyalty. And, on the other hand, it is the one that I need. But there is much more to Dinenel than his blind allegiance to the House of Caranthir. She is a clever and brave female, with clear priorities. As she understands it, whoever is loyal to her is the one who deserves her loyalty. I identify with that way of thinking.”  
“I know “, recognized Fëanor.  
“Which is one of the reasons why Fingolfin and I don’t get along quite well despite how much we love each other. Káno is usually -irrational when delivering his affections”, shrugged the queen. “More than once I wondered how he could love you so much when you just mistreated him.”  
“It was not always like that between us, remember?”  
“But then it was. For a long time. I am glad that you have found a way to live together again. Mother is happy”, she pointed. “Father would be too.”

Fëanor doubted it, taking into account the way of coexisting that they chose. He contented himself with smiling, without committing himself, and returned to observe the warrior maidens.

“Why females?” he asked.  
“Oh ... the Council was being a headache. In recent times, especially when approaching the trial date of Isilendil and Súrion, there were several incidents in the city ... almost all caused by the more radical Valaduri.”  
“I did not hear that…”  
“Fingolfin ordered that you not be informed. He suspected you would worry and would want to come to Tirion. We were all interested in satisfying Thranduil's demands and in any case, the riots were controlled. On one occasion, however, the rioters came so close to throw a stone at our brother when he was scouring the districts. The aggressor was captured by people itself and a few days later a letter from Turgon arrived ...”  
“Oh crap. Tell me he was not behind that.”  
“ No! But some of his former colleagues were involved. Turgon was shocked to comprehend how close they were to hurting his father and he blew the whistle. Although everything was resolved, the Council insisted that the Noldóran should have a constant escort. When I was named Crown Princess, it was decided that I would enjoy equal privilege. But some Council members argued that it was not right for a single female to live with males 24 hours a day. So there was a small problem with my escort. Until Caranthir brought up the case of his wife.”  
“Haleth?”  
“Lady Haleth had an entourage of women warriors. More or less for the same reason: to safeguard the ... virtue of the queen and prevent her from conceiving a bastard child. Unlikely in Haleth's case”; laughed Findis lowly; “since her husband was more than capable of controlling when ... to impregnate her.”  
“Then the Council gave you a retinue of elven she-warriors.”  
“To safeguard my life and my virtue.” She shrugged. “I do not intend to have children, anyway. I am not the maternal type and the only elf that has ever interested me ... is not the fatherly type.”  
“Rather he is of the 'clueless' type”, smiled Fëanor. “O 'flying type'.”  
“He's a good elf. Everyone in that family is. And they all have problems of madness. How do you explain if not that Nerdanel married you?”  
“A case of temporary insanity. Definitely, " he nodded and they both laughed softly. “So, are you tired of being a queen? You only have been for a few days.”  
“And I have about five hundred years left before I can abdicate in favor of Arakáno. It was what they established in that law. At first I thought it was great; but now…”  
“ You're going to do it phenomenally, Annatári “, his older brother assured him.  
“A whole compliment coming from you.”  
“Well, Nolvo will not be far away, as I heard ...”

Findis pursed her lips at his comment. Fëanor broke off, wondering why her expression changed.

“I'm not sure about that”, she shook her head. “I think that Turgon's almost involvement in these disturbances affected him more than he let us see. As usual.” She continued between teeth, with worried expression. “Arakáno always keeps everything he feels and we never know how to help him.”  
“I know. But Nolvo always gets ahead. In addition, in recent times he has learned to be more communicative. I'm sure Fingon ...”  
“That's the problem. This time he not only left us all out, but he walked away from us.”  
“He walked away?”  
“The day after my coronation he left Tirion. He said he was going to visit mom. Fingon wanted to accompany him; but he refused outright ...”  
“But ... “ Fëanor stammered, “but -he'll be back for the wedding, right? He's coming to ...”  
“I don’t think so”, denied Findis. “I only saw him a moment after the ceremony; but he seemed ... well, I never saw him so -defeated. I think he argued with Fingon -Our nephew is furious with his brother and I think he thinks his father gives too much importance to this. Or maybe ... Káno was just running away from something else.”

Fëanor fought against disappointment. No, Fingolfin had not fled from him. Fingolfin was hurt because of Turgon. Fingolfin was tired and had only sought his mother's comfort. Fingolfin would be back soon. He would go back for him.

“Nolofinwë never flees”, he declared, firmly. “If you allow me, Findis; I have not rested yet and I want to see my children before night falls.”  
“Of course. Another day we will talk about Greenwood and its fascinating inhabitants. Do you know that Lord Daeron of Doriath asked me for Lalwen's hand? I do not know what to say to that. I need Káno here”, she sighed. “Actually, I'm very glad that you've come back: if Arakáno hesitates to return, you'll go look for him, right? And you will bring it back.”  
“Even if I have to drag him from one ear”,Fëanor smiled.  
Findis's clear eyes lit up, amused.  
“I remember seeing that when he snuck out to swim in the lake. You dragged him soaked all over the palace. From one ear.”  
“Lalwen kept asking if they would have to cut his ear when she saw it so red.”

The two laughed.

The queen's maids - who stood a few paces behind - hid their faces to snicker at the image of High King Fingolfin being dragged from the ear by his older brother. That, definitely, did not appear in history’s books.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Nerdanel looked at the block of dark green marble. She was supposed to use it on a statue of Ossë; but the green was not the right one. With a sigh of annoyance, she turned around as she took off her dust-stained apron.

Breathing stopped in her chest as she saw the elf leaning on the doorjamb.

Fëanor smiled at her perplexed expression and took a few steps in her direction.

“ You did not expect me so soon, huh?” He commented as he approached Nerdanel.  
“Not until the wedding day ... the night before maybe”, she admitted. “It's more your style of doing things.”  
“Not this time”, he sighed, shaking his head. “I could not bear to be away one more day.”  
“I remember that formerly you could not stand being in Tirion. You couldn't breath, you said.”

Fëanor pouted and with a peculiar glow in the silver eyes, replied:

“ At that time I had not understood that you can breathe from someone else's mouth.”

Nerdanel blushed like a young girl. Hurriedly, she turned to set the tools on the table. It was stupid to be moved that way by a simple phrase. She was a mature elf, mother of seven children and had known Fëanor for thousands of years. She was used to his ways, right?

“Did you see the kids?” she asked, praying that her voice would sound firm.  
“If by 'kids' you mean our children ... everyone is too busy to receive their father after a year without seeing him.”  
“Yes they have a lot of work”, Nerdanel smiled, conciliatory.  
“I'm happy for them. I, on the other hand, go around in an empty house. Would you feel sorry for my loneliness and take me to eat something?”He pouted.

Nerdanel laughed, amused.

“Let's go. Anyway, I'm done here.”

 

Half an hour later they occupied a table in the cafeteria located near the Library. Fëanor remembered that over a year ago he had lunch there with Fingolfin. A smile played on his lips when the waitress who attended them raised her eyebrows when she recognized him. Of course, it was not the same girl who almost called Fingolfin 'Majesty': she was somewhat older and had the good fortune to treat him with due respect.

While waiting for their order while having a drink, Nerdanel told him the details of the riots caused by the radical Valaduri. They had not gone beyond protests and invasions to the Council Chamber. When a too enthusiastic young elf took his ardor to the point of throwing a stone at the Noldóran, the population had gone mad. For a few days there was a tense atmosphere: the Kemendili had erupted in anger, the Ingolmor had demanded that the Valaduri be expelled from the city, the Avarin had come to offer their forces to the king to impose order ... Many believed that a new civil war could be unleashed, only this time the followers of Fingolfin and the Fëanorion were on the same side. However, the leaders of the Valaduri denied their involvement in the events and provided conclusive proof of their innocence. The letter sent by Turgon clarified everything: afraid of what might happen, Egalmoth had left Tirion to take refuge with Turgon in Valimar and had told him the details of the revolt that Arcyrias and Almiel had organized. Apparently, Turgon demanded from his former vassal the names of each conspirator and communicated them to his father, freeing some of the guilt and betraying others. It could be considered an unfair attitude on the part of the prince to denounce the elf who trusted him; but all thanked his intervention to avoid greater evils.

Listening to Nerdanel, Fëanor had to restrain himself from jumping up and running in search of those imbeciles. How dare they attack Fingolfin? This part of him had never changed: he could not bear for someone to pretend to harm his brother. Even in the years of discord, Fëanor never tolerated any of his followers offending the Grand Prince. That was only _his privilege_. Now, that protective instinct had only been accentuated. On the other hand, he thought about the bad time that Fingolfin had spent: never, in his years of governing, Fingolfin had faced discontent on the part of the population. Nobody ever rebelled against his authority: every time someone disagreed, they only retreated, leaving the majority in the service of the king. Fingolfin, who had always placed his people above his own family, must have felt a deep pain when attacked by one of his subjects.

“I want to see that boy”, said Fëanor, interrupting his companion. “The one who attacked Nolvo.”

Nerdanel denied in silence.

“The Council banished all the guilty parties.”  
“Where?”  
“Tol Eressëa. It was the site chosen by the Supreme King for the exile of criminals. Death is forbidden in Valinor; therefore, only exile remains until someone decides to release them.”  
“The Valar approved that decision?”  
“The Valar do not talk much in recent times.”

Fëanor remembered his conversation with Námo a year ago. He still found it hard to get used to the fact that the gods did not intervene in the daily life of the elves. Manwë and Varda had been quite insistent about it.

“Nolvo left Tirion”, he commented, gently.  
“I know. The twins told me, " she agreed. “They said he looked tired. For the first time.”

Breath knotted in Fëanor's throat. To his mind came Fingolfin’s image after Alqualondë: blood staining his elegant clothes, a cut on his left cheek (so close to the eye that Fëanor almost gave in to the urge to send him to a healer) but, above all, his eyes without light, dull, full of pain and fatigue ... An image that Fëanor would not want to see in this life.

“He will be fine”, he said, more to himself.” He is strong. He is a warrior.”  
“The boys are worried”, admitted Nerdanel.  
“Why?” the prince startled despite his own words.  
“Amrod and Amras claim that Fingolfin seemed very enthusiastic about the wedding and suddenly -He had been very involved in the planning for the coronation, the wedding after, the parties -he even worked on the design of the city lighting for the festival and -I don’t know. You know I don’t see him often anymore; but the boys say that it was as if he suddenly ran out of energy, as if all the tension of this year fell on him in one fell swoop.”  
“He's with Indis”, Fëanor reminded himself. “She ... she has always known how to help her children. She ... she is a wonderful mother.”  
“I do not doubt it. But, if you ask me, Fingolfin needs someone by his side.”  
“Someone?”  
“A mate, Fëanáro”, she smiled. “Someone who’s by his side in good and bad times. Someone who listens to him when he needs to let off steam, to give him strength to continue the next day, to listen to his dreams and help him build them ... Someone who does not get tired of the path he chose. Can you imagine how difficult it must be for him? Although he has a huge family, Fingolfin is almost always alone. His three children have a partner. His grandchildren ... well, two are married”, she smiled, amused. “Among them. And the third has an active social life. His nephews ... well, they all have their own lives too.”  
“I am here for him”, replied Fëanor, seriously.

Nerdanel smiled affectionately.

“You also have your own life. How you want to live and the career that Fingolfin chose are not compatible, Fëanor. Sometime…”  
“They are complementary. My life, my talents, my knowledge ... can serve Nolvo’s dreams. He is the ruler and I am the one who will make his promises come true. We are two sides of the same coin, Nerdanel.”

The sculptress watched him silently.

“It's the first time I've heard you so excited about working with your brother in politics.”  
“ It's not politics. It is common sense. The Noldor need Nolofinwë. It would be very selfish if I denied them this opportunity.”  
“But do not you have plans to rebuild your life?” Nerdanel asked cautiously. “Have with whom ...”  
“Those are precisely my plans”, released Fëanor, recovering the blissful brightness in his eyes. “Look! I made them by myself, I assure you.”

Nerdanel held her breath as Fëanor pulled a night-blue velvet pouch from the pocket of his jacket and flipped the contents into the palm of his hand.

Two rings were visible. Perfect, it was the word to describe them: each one was made of threads of silver and gold that were intertwined. The upper part represented two hands that held a heart: one made of sapphire and the other of ruby.  
It was evident that they had been designed so as not to have to be changed, since the elven tradition established that in the engagement silver rings would be given, which during the marriage would be exchanged for a pair of gold.

Nerdanel observed the jewels, fascinated. They were the most beautiful rings she had ever seen: really Fëanor had taken great pains. And alone. Nerdanel remembered that for their engagement, Fëanor had asked for Mahtan's help, since rings always caused him too many difficulties.

“You can see them up close”, Fëanor smiled, excited by her expression of awe.

She nodded without words and took the ring with the sapphire. She did not quite understand the symbols of the stones; but surely he would explain it to her: Fëanor did everything for a reason.

“That's mine”, he explained, giving her the reason.

Nerdanel studied it a few seconds before returning it to the outstretched hand and taking the one with the ruby. A single glance was enough to notice that it was almost as big as Fëanor's. Although her hands were coarse for a female, they were of a suitable size for her gender.

For a moment, she studied the ring, twirling it between her fingers. Fëanor was happy as a child with a new toy with his work and Nerdanel was hesitant to tell him that the ring should be adjusted.

“It is not a little big?” She ventured at last.

Fëanor raised an eyebrow and taking the ring back, reviewed it, evoking Fingolfin's fingers in his mind.

“No”, he denied at the end, smiling. “It's the right size.”  
“Sure? It's almost your measure.”  
“ My hands are just a little bigger and callous ... but this is the right measure. I'm sure.”  
“Seriously?” She laughed and snatched the loop, slipped it on her left ring finger.

Fëanor looked at the ring that danced on Nerdanel's finger. His silver eyes went from the smiling face of the female to the jewel several times, as if he finally understood ...

“Nerdanel, give me back the ring”, he asked with an effort.

She smiled sweetly at the tension in his jawlines: Fëanor could be so exaggerated at times!

“It isn’t a big deal” she reassured. “With a small adjustment ...”  
“Nerdanel, the ring”, he demanded, harshly.

The sculptress stared at him, confused by his change of attitude and pulled the hoop from her finger to give it back.

“It's not the big deal, Fëanáro. A ring can be fixed. It just…”  
“It's not for you.”  
“ ... needs to be ... Excuse me?”

Fëanor packed the jewels hastily in the velvet pouch and stood up. Only then did he face the stunned face of the mother of his children.

“It's not for you. The ring. It's not for you. It's ... for someone else. I'm sorry if ... if at some point I made you believe ... if you felt that I ...”  
“You wrote to Maitimo. You told him to prepare the wedding”, she reminded him. “All this time you ...”  
“Our marriage no longer exists. We are separated, Nerdanel. I thought you ... " He rubbed his brow, confused: talking about these issues was not his thing. “I'm really sorry. Yes, I'm going to get married; but with -with someone else. I did not -I did not want to confuse you like that. You are ... you are my friend, Nerdanel.”  
“I am the mother of your children”, she reminded him.  
“But you're not the person I love. Not in this way, Nerdanel. Not to share good and bad times, to dawn every day in your arms, to ... listen to your dreams and help you build them ... never tire of the path you chose. You are not that person. Sorry.”

Hurriedly, he moved away from the table. He stopped a few steps away and came back while pulling some coins out of his pocket to leave them next to his glass. He looked up at the motionless Nerdanel and repeated, ruefully:

“Sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rivernil: black crown (s)  
> * Dinenel: silent + fem. termination (s)


	33. Chapter 33

Hyellemaitë was an experienced female. Like Mahtan, she was born in Cuiviénen, when the elves sang to the stars and performed temporary marriages. She knew the old laws as well as the new ones and remembered that the elves of her youth saw the world with different eyes - eyes that had not been blinded by the Light of the Trees, eyes that were not veiled by the death of the Trees.

Hyellemaitë had been friends with Míriel when the latter was a restless young woman in the fullness of Aman and she had frowned when the Broideress agreed to marry Finwë. What joy could she find between marble walls and glass stairs, a creature that loved running and riding and swimming? A creature that would have flown had she been born with wings? Many people blamed Fëanor for the fate of Míriel: Hyellemaitë knew that Míriel Þerindë was not born to bear children. Indis, on the other hand, was born to be queen.

Hyellemaitë, though she never considered Fëanor a cursed creature as many claimed, would have preferred Finwë's firstborn to fix his eyes on another female other than Nerdanel. There was no need to misinterpret it: Hyellemaitė adored her grandchildren; but she knew that, in Cuiviénen - before the laws of the Valar guided the Elvish lives - Fëanor would not have chosen Nerdanel as his wife.

Almost twelve hours had passed since Hyellemaitë looked up when the door opened and she saw her daughter with her face deranged, her eyes red and her hair disheveled by the race. Nerdanel had not spoken: she only crossed the room and disappeared upstairs to lock himself in her alcove. Mahtan's wife did not need the sixth Elvish and maternal sense to guess what had happened.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Hyellemaitë squeezed between her hands the notebook that she kept for millennia, something she had promised herself never to show her daughter. With a sigh, she stood up and left the bedroom.

 

Nerdanel did not respond to her mother's call. Lying face down on the bed, she continued with her face buried in the pillow. She felt like an idiot; but above all, she was ashamed of her own reaction. By now, she should know Fëanor, she should already be able to read him as an open book. How had she been wrong in that way? Unless…  
Unless she hadn’t been wrong and all that time, Fëanor had considered the possibility of renewing the vows. Maybe he had met someone. Perhaps one of his occasional lovers ... Perhaps he had taken the fact that he had made a mistake in the size of the ring as a bad omen: Nerdanel knew that, deep down, Fëanor was superstitious and took any insignificance as a sign of destiny. Maybe it was an excuse ...

“Nerdanel?”

She did not move to face her mother. She felt that the mattress sank slightly to her left and an instant later, fingers sank into her hair, tamping them tenderly.

“Honey, talk to me”, said Hyellemaitë. “Tell me what happened. Fëanáro ...”  
“The ring was too big for me”, answered Nerdanel without raising her head.

Hyellemaitë's fingers stopped in her red hair.

“He gave you a ring?”  
“He showed them to me.” She confessed and moved to sit on the bed, legs crossed under her body. “He had them with him and he took them there, in the middle of the cafeteria ... and the ring was too big for me. I told him he could adjust it and he ... -he completely changed his expression. It was as if he saw me for the first time in all this time, as if -He said it was not for me, that the ring was for someone ... someone else. He…”  
“Oh darling!” shook her mother's head, with a compassionate expression. “I'm so sorry. I would not have wanted you to know it that way ...”  
“Know what?”Nerdanel jumped. “This is just confusion. He is -he must have known someone in Greenwood and he is confused, afraid of making the same mistakes and that’s why he is using as an excuse a relationship that does not exist to delay reality. You know how he is: any trifle seems like a sign that the universe conspires against him ...”  
“Nerdanel ...”  
“Maybe he needs time. I should give him a few days ... but I cannot let him get carried away by his fear of ...”  
“Nerdanel.”  
“I know we're not going to fail this time. We have learned -We have both learned from our mistakes; but he is still afraid.”  
“ Nerdanel!”

The sculptress looked up from her hands, startled and confronted her mother. Hyellemaitë hissed, rubbing her temples and looked at her again in silence.

After a few minutes, Nerdanel stirred impatiently.

“What?”demanded.  
“Nerdanel, Fëanáro never had intentions of resuming his marriage with you. It is true that there is someone else.”  
“When? No, mom; there is no one else. He has not met anyone. I was in Greenwood with him. I…”  
“Here. That person was always in Tirion, dear.”  
“Did you know?” Frown her daughter, bewildered. “Since when?”  
“I didn’t know. Not with certainty, anyway. I told you that it was possible that you were wrong to identify the signs of Fëanáro.”  
“But he said ...”  
“He never said he loved you. He never looked for you as a lover. He values you, Nerdanel; but as a friend. I want you to see something.”

She looked for the notebook she had left on the night table and handed it to her daughter.

Nerdanel looked at the pad and looked up at Hyellemaitë's face, who only encouraged her to check it with a gesture.  
While Nerdanel opened the notebook and passed sheet after sheet, looking at the ink sketches, Hyellemaitë remembered the moment she found that notebook.

After the departure of his son-in-law and his grandchildren into exile, word spread that Mandos had cursed them for the battle of Alqualondë. News arrived that some wanted to come to Formenos and destroy the properties of Fëanor, erase all traces of his presence in Valinor. Hyellemaitë and Angaher had run to the fortress of Fëanor to rescue everything they could from their belongings, any possible memories of the family they probably would never see again. She and her son had collected everything they found without checking what they were carrying: clothes, jewelry, documents, toys, ornaments ... Only when they were back in Mahtan's family home, they both looked at their loot. It was then that Hyellemaitë discovered the sketchbook. She had hidden it from everyone - from herself! - frightened of what she intuited among its pages.

“I don’t understand”, Nerdanel mused, passing more sheets ... only to find the same person in the following drawings. “It's ... Nolofinwë. All are drawings of Nolofinwë.”

Hyellemaitë took a breath, remembering her reaction. She knew each portrait by heart: in the first ones, Fingolfin was still a child, all black curls and awaken curious eyes. As the notebook progressed, the age of the model also did.

_Fingolfin asleep under a tree. Fingolfin wearing the uniform of the Academy for the first time. Fingolfin dancing with a girl without a face. Fingolfin biting an apple. Fingolfin lying on the floor playing with his two favorite cats. Fingolfin in the forge. Fingolfin disguised as Avar for the Harvest Festival. Fingolfin sleeping on the sofa in Fëanor's workshop. Fingolfin training archery. Fingolfin coming out of the hot springs with only a towel around his hips. Fingolfin listening carefully to a master’s exposition. Fingolfin dressed like a true prince, wearing the white gold ring made by Fëanor. Fingolfin on the day of his wedding. Fingolfin holding Fingon in his arms for the first time. Fingolfin in the Council. ___

___“Why are you showing me this?” Nerdanel asked, looking at her mother._  
“Your father and I did not believe that the marriage between you and Fëanáro worked a second time. I suggested to your father that he go to speak with the only elf capable of making Fëanáro understand.”  
“Father went to talk to Nolofinwë? About my relationship with Fëanáro? Mother! How could you? Now I understand…!”  
“No, you don’t understand”, she interrupted her and, taking away the notebook, she passed several pages until she found a specific drawing. “When I discovered this notebook, I hid it because I thought -I thought that Fëanáro's obsession with his half-brother wasn’t normal -it was not a brother's. The relationship between them always seemed too ... possessive, too dependent. It was unnatural. Not even Telvo and Pityo behaved that way. Seeing this notebook, I thought -I thought I could find the real explanation for the deep hatred that Fëanáro felt for someone he had loved so much. I hid it from you because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.” 

__She handed Nerdanel the notebook back, showing her the chosen drawing._ _

__Nerdanel looked down. From the paper, Fingolfin watched her (his loose hair framing the beautiful face, the eyes with that sleepy expression he used to adopt in the gatherings, the bare shoulders bathed in Telperion’s light). Around his throat, highlighting the sensual attraction of his features, turning the majesty of the king into the lover's grace, three unmistakable stones were drawn._ _

__“This,” Nerdanel stammered, facing Hyellemaitë; “this never happened.”  
“You're right. But this only proves one thing: it was _in Nolofinwë_ that your ex-husband imagined the silmarils. It was for _him_ that he thought them for the first time.”_ _

__Nerdanel looked at the drawing again._ _

___“Mother, are you saying that ...?”  
“Your father spoke with the king the day before Findis’s coronation. He told him that Fëanáro was going to ask you to renew the vows.”  
“And Nolofinwë left Tirion”, concluded the sculptress, with trembling hands. “Oh Aulë! That's why he asked me ... that time, he said that if I believed that the relationship between them ... Oh Eru! How could I be so blind?”_

__

____//______//_______//________//________//___ _

__

__“What the hell is wrong with you, Finwion? A few years ago, you thundered my rooms to let you out, and now you want to enter? Are you missing screws in that beautiful head?”_ _

__Fëanor turned to the figure who was shouting questions in the middle of the gray tile walkway._ _

__This time, Námo had adopted the image of an overly tall elf, with long blue and silver hair and golden eyes delineated with long black strokes. He was dressed in leather, with a chain around his waist and his boots were closed above his knees with a profusion of mithril buckles. As always, his lips were painted dark blue, which highlighted his pale skin._ _

___“Why do you always look this weird?” Fëanor asked, with sincere curiosity._  
“Because I'm a goddamned God of Death. Thank Eru that I don’t decide to use bat wings or jackal's head. Or a necklace of skulls. What the hell are you doing here? As far as I know, you're still alive. And if someone knows, it's definitely me, that's why ...”  
“Nerdanel is in love with me. She thought I was going to propose her to renew the vows. And Nolofinwë left Tirion before my return. He's -he's very affected by the riots and I do not know ...”  
“He's with Indis”, said Námo before thinking twice. Then he frowned and added, in a confused tone: “Wait. Why are you coming to tell me all this?”  
“You're ... good at advising me.”  
“I'm not your personal advisor, Fëanáro. I’m the Vala of death and I have a pretty tight schedule to have to go every time you kick my door and make my Maiar nervous.”  
“It doesn’t seem”, the elf raised an eyebrow. “That they are nervous, I mean. That Hiswërauko is quite -phlegmatic, to say the least. Also, I did not know where else to go. My children ... I have not seen them yet and I do not know to what extent they know about Nerdanel's hopes ...”  
“Hopes to marry you again? Confirmed: that female has masochistic tendencies.”  
“I do not think I gave her such hopes. I was confused by her reaction when I showed her the rings; but no ... I never imagined that she would still want ...”  
“Sometimes it surprises me how naive you are, son of Finwë”, sighed Námo. “In all this time it did not occur to you that Nerdanel was interested in you in a romantic way? For a moment, I myself came to believe that you had changed your mind about Nolofinwë.”  
“You've been spying on me?”  
“On your half-brother, actually. It's the one that pleases me. You are just the accessory that makes him happy.” 

__Fëanor was tempted to stick out his tongue; but instead, he turned on his heels and dropped down at the foot of a column._ _

___“I did not want to hurt Nerdanel “, he confessed, with bitterness. “She is the best friend I have ever had in my life. And she is the mother of my children. She deserves something better than being disappointed in this way.”  
“That's for sure. Nerdanel is a valuable female, " the Vala confirmed, crouching a few steps away from him. “You don’t deserve her.”  
“Thank you.”  
“You don’t deserve your children either. Well, maybe you deserve Curufin.” He corrected, with a grimace. “And Celegorm. But you don’t deserve Nolofinwë. Not a son-in-law like Fingon. Or like Gil. You definitely don’t deserve Celebrimbor.”  
“Are you trying to make me feel better? Because it does not look like that.”  
“Why should I make you feel better? You behaved like an idiot with Nerdanel. In your first life ... and now again. But she will succeed. Actually, she is not _madly__ in love with you, you know? She is in love with what you both experienced at the beginning. She is in love with the idea of being happy with you, her first love. She believes that if she does it right this time, it will mean that the first time she didn’t fail you. You can’t do anything for her, Fëanáro. She has to discover her real feelings alone and find her own way.”  
“ If I go back to her, she could misinterpret it again, right?” ventured the Noldo, thoughtful. “She could still cling to the possibility that one day I ...”  
“That is. For your peace of mind, Nerdanel will find love again. She’ll find someone who makes her happy, someone who will listen to her dreams and help her build them, who will not tire of the path she chose for herself.” 

__Fëanor smiled, mockingly._ _

___“You were spying on me”, he confirmed._  
“Vairë has tapestries. She insists on making me see them at all times. Now, Fëanáro, why don’t you stop nagging me and going to look for your true love? As I know from experience, Taniquetil is very cold at this time of year.”  
“Nolvo does not feel the cold like the rest of us.”  
“The cold of a wounded heart is the same for everyone. Have crossed the Helcaraxë or not.” 

__The prince reflected for a moment on the words of the Ainu. He wanted to ask Námo if he knew anything else ... What nonsense! Of course, Námo knew something else: he always knew more. But even if he asked him, he knew he would only get riddles in response._ _

___“I'll wait for the wedding to pass. Everyone expects me to be present”, he explained. “I also want to give Nolvo some time. I imagine how much it must have affected him to be attacked by one of his subjects after all he has sacrificed for them. Nolvo has always been the ruler loved by the people: to be in that situation must have been ... too painful. If he rejected Fingon's company, who is ... a part of his soul, it's because he really needs to be alone. In addition, Indis is with him. If someone knows how to heal his spirit, it is her.”_  
“Praising your stepmother?” Námo raised his eyebrows. “The sky is going to fall.”  
“I appreciate the good qualities of Indis.”  
“Except when it comes to her qualities as your father's wife.”  
“Whatever, “ sighed Fëanor standing up with agility. “Speaking of my father and his wives ... Can I see ...?”  
“No”, denied the Vala, dryly.  
“You did not even let me finish! How did you know what I was going to say? Oh yeah: the god of prophecy.”  
“That's me. And now I prophesy that you will go home and you won’t come back here in ten millennia. I'm getting sick of playing Freud with you.”  
“What is a f ...?”  
“Do you hear that? Riiiiiing! It's the bell telling us that your time here ended. Go home, elf; I have a million souls more needy than you to attend. And you need to stop postponing the inevitable. And the ring is of the correct size.” 

__Fëanor was speechless when the Vala disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke with silver sparks._ _

__“Clown”, he whispered.  
“ I can still hear you, son of Finwë!” pointed a ghostly voice in his ear._ _

__

____//______//_______//________//________//___ _

__

__Lying on the bed with a forearm over his eyes, Fingolfin remained motionless._ _

__He did not sleep. In fact, he had not slept since Mahtan visited him in Tirion. His heart hurt so much that sometimes he wanted to take it out of his chest and hide it where he never felt it again._ _

__It was ridiculous. He knew it. He had never experienced lovesickness nor had he fallen into the terrible habit of writing pathetic verses to relieve pain; but every time he thought, the only thing that came to his mind were bombastic phrases extolling the pain of losing his beloved._ _

__With a hiss, he uncovered his face and sat on the bed._ _

__Dammit! This wasn’t him. This weeping, defeated elf hiding in a room in his mother's house was not Fingolfin Finwion, once High King of the Noldor, the hero of the songs, the leader who crossed the Helcaraxë, the elf who confronted Morgoth Bauglir ..._ _

__And a shit! He collapsed, moaning, hiding his face in the pillow. He wanted Fëanor. He wanted to be back in his arms, in his bed. He wanted his kisses and his promises. He had waited a whole year to feel his skin again, his smell, his taste ... He wanted what he had been promised would be his!_ _

__He was a coward, he knew it. He had not trembled when he challenged Morgoth to a duel. He had not trembled when he saw the Dark Vala go out through the doors of Angband - well, maybe a little. But the idea of facing Fëanor with Nerdanel, of verifying that Mahtan's words were true, terrified him._ _

__He was aware that he could not stay at his mother's house forever. At some point he would have to return to Tirion and the sooner he did, the better it would be. It was like pulling a bandage that has stuck in the bleeding wound: it is better if it is removed in one go. he had some experience about it._ _

__The sooner he would face Fëanor and see if he had really returned with Nerdanel, the quicker his heart would be healed.  
He rested his chin on the pillow, staring at the white wall in front of him._ _

__His heart was never going to heal. He knew that this was a risk from the beginning. He knew that love was a game of chance and you're never sure which cards will touch you. He had managed to make a pretty good out of his relationship with Hador because he always knew there would be an end. With Fëanor, however, he had let himself be carried away by feelings. It was not that he was not aware that one day might end; it was that he had not wanted to think about that possibility. He wanted - for the first time - _this love to be everlasting.__ _

__Maybe it was the best, kept saying his rational part. His relationship with Fëanor would probably never be accepted and he was committed to serving his people. However, from the bottom of his soul, Fingolfin knew that he would have given up everything in order to be with the elf he loved._ _

__With a tired snort, he stood up again._ _

__A dizziness forced him to lean on a nearby chair and with an effort, he tried to remember when was the last time he ate. The afternoon before Mahtan went to see him maybe?_ _

__Simply great: not only was he dying of love, but also of hunger._ _

__He left the bedroom, ignoring his disheveled clothes and unbrushed hair. The light that entered through the corridor jalousies almost made him cover his eyes. He went to the kitchen, cursing under his breath the sun that insisted on entering through every damn hole._ _

__

__Indis's kitchen looked like an exhibition kitchen in a homeware store: everything was neatly polished and gleaming. Fingolfin rummaged through the cupboards until he found a jar of jelly, and with the largest spoon he could find, he began to give an account of the jam._ _

__“Until finally you decided to came out. I thought you were planning to take root in there.”_ _

__Fingolfin narrowed his eyes, not answering his mother._ _

__“ Is that all you think to eat? Raspberry jelly? What are you? A kid?”_ _

__He ignored his mother's scolding and sucked the spoon slowly._ _

__Indis watched him with a frown._ _

__The widowed queen was still the most beautiful creature that stepped on Arda, according to the poets. She wore her platinum blond hair pulled back in a braid that circled her head like a headband and wore a simple sky blue dress to match her expressive eyes._ _

___“Don’t you think of combing at some point, Arakáno?” Indis asked again, with severity. “At this rate, it will be better to cut it than to untangle your hair.”_  
“Whatever,” Fingolfin grumbled before smacking his lips.  
“ Oh, so you still talk. You could use a bath too. You stink.”  
“Elves don’t stink. Unless you spend 30 years as Morgoth’s prisoner. Then you do stink. Especially if you were hanged from a mountain and your cousin ...”  
“Did you finish eating the jelly like a savage?” She interrupted. “It was a gift for Rúmil, you know?”  
“That old man is eating the best candies of Tirion”, growled Fingolfin.  
“Clean your mouth and come with me.”  
“Don’t wanna go anywhere. I'm gonna go back to my room and stay there until someone kills the sun.”  
“Arien would not be happy to hear that.”  
“Fuck her.”  
“ Stop being spoiled, Arakáno. You are no longer a child to have tantrums. You come with me. Like it or not. Walk.” 

__Fingolfin watched her turn and walk. Snorting with annoyance, he followed her, sure that his mother was very capable of returning and forcing him to follow her by pulling on his ear._ _

__

__Indis went to her rooms without turning to check if she was being followed._ _

__They passed silently through the sitting room, the painting studio, the bedroom, and finally arrived at the cabinet._ _

__Fingolfin stopped here, hands in his pockets; but her mother went to a wall and removed a key from under a vase before moving a molding on the wall to show a lock._ _

__Before opening the door, she turned to her son, who was watching her, intrigued._ _

___“You have to promise me that you will not tell anyone about this secret”, she said, firmly. “We’ve decided that it is not yet time for it to be public and you’ll be the first, outside of Rúmil, to know it. Not even your children, Arakáno.”_  
“I promise I will not tell anyone.”  
“Not even Fëanáro.”  
“Eh ... I'm not going to talk to him in the next few decades, so ... Why so much mystery, mom?” 

__Instead of answering, Indis turned and opened the hidden door to slide to the other side._ _

__Fingolfin hesitated a few seconds before following her._ _

__

__On the other side, a simply furnished bedroom awaited him; but equipped to meet any need. A screen concealed a copper tub and at the back of the room was a bed surrounded by silk curtains._ _

__Fingolfin discovered his mother leaning on the bed, where it was possible to appreciate the figure of someone._ _

__“Yes, my dear”, said Indis in an affectionate whisper ; ”he has finally left his room and I have brought him to meet you.”_ _

__The other person had to whisper something, because Indis stood up and signaled to her son, who advanced cautiously.  
Indis took Fingolfin by one hand to force him to approach the bed while still holding the hand of the lying person with the other._ _

__“Don't be fooled”, smiled the widow queen, with sweetness. “He’s much more handsome when he is bathed and well combed.”_ _

__Fingolfin barely heard his mother's joke. His gaze was fixed on the female reclining on several pillows._ _

__Long silver hair stretched over pillows and bust. Obsidian eyes showed a sleepy expression as they walked with close-to-affection interest over the male._ _

__Fingolfin held his breath: if he had not seen that face in hundreds of portraits, in statues, in tapestries, he would still recognize the similarity between those features and those of someone he loved because - without a doubt - that was Míriel Þerindë._ _


	34. Chapter 34

If something was clear it was that Fingolfin had carefully designed each moment of transition. Ensuring that the first official act in Findis's reign was a wedding - a royal wedding, too - was like giving the populace a portent of prosperity and bliss. Regardless of race, age or social background, everyone loves romantic stories. Especially if they have a happy ending.

Fëanor smiled internally as he watched the ceremony.

To celebrate the wedding a bower of mithril and glass was built. Made of assemblable pieces, the structure was raised on four tree-shaped poles, whose branches were intertwined to form the roof composed of glass leaves in different shades of green.

The gazebo had been located in Tirion Square, because the whole town had been invited. Although the couple had originally tried to make the ceremony private, Fingolfin had convinced them that sharing their happiness with everyone was their duty as members of the royal family.

Finduilas had arrived escorted by her father, her cousin and her uncles. Finrod had departed for Middle-earth half a year ago in search of the wayward elves so he only left his best wishes for the couple.

The bride was guided by the hand by her father, while the other three males walked two steps behind. The four wore the colors of the Kemendili: red and green, which highlighted their golden physicists even more. In the middle of them, Finduilas looked like a jasmine: the long, almost white hair adorned with diamonds and rubies interwoven in a net of silver threads, dressed in a snowy dress whose only color detail was the red belt that encircled her waist.

From the opposite direction, Celebrimbor had arrived, escorted by his father and his six uncles, all dressed in white and blue, the colors of stability and wisdom; all wearing on the right shoulder the eight-pointed star of the House of Fëanor.  
The High Queen was waiting for them in the middle of the gazebo.

Orodreth and Curufin handed the hands of their respective children to the sovereign and withdrew a few steps to observe in silence. Findis joined the hands of the couple and told them that they could pronounce the vows.  
Finduilas was the first to offer her promise of love and fidelity. Her clear, argentine voice was shattered in the silence of the square like a spring of freshness.

Celebrimbor spoke later, calmly. His voice trembled a little at the beginning; but then he snatched everyone with the characteristic Fëanorian eloquence.

Then, as tradition established, the bride and groom withdrew the silver rings and exchanged them for the gold ones. The High Queen returned to join hands and blessed them in the name of the One, wishing them happiness and the early arrival of children.

“May your marriage be as fertile as tradition in our family”, said the queen with a half-smile, causing Celebrimbor to blush and Finduilas tilted her head slightly while saying clearly:  
“We will do everything possible to add more laughter to our house, madam; following the example of our cousins.” 

“That's right!” exclaimed Aegnor, amidst the general surprise.

Before people finished assimilating the allusion to the marriage of Idril and Lómion, enthusiastic applause erupted among the royal family, quickly seconded despite different opinions.

Fëanor applauded while he held his laughter: Fingolfin would have been proud of Finduilas.

Findis waited for the applause to subside.

“It's not our habit; but I’ve been told that among humans it’s tradition to say in this part of the wedding: 'you can kiss the bride'”, she declared with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

For a second, it seemed that the couple wished to decline the privilege of initiating the tradition; but Celebrimbor took Finduilas' hands in one of his own and stroked her cheek with the other, inviting her to come closer. The young woman remained motionless while he leaned over until his lips brushed her with the softness of butterfly wings. With a faint sigh, she opened her mouth and kissed him back tenderly.

After a moment, they parted in the general silence.

“Long live the newlyweds!” shouted a female voice and Fëanor turned, bewildered, to recognize sweet Celebrían howling with eyes full of tears.

Quickly, more voices joined the cheers and once again, Tirion Square boiled with happiness. Fëanor also shouted, thinking that his father would have loved to see this: his whole family celebrating. Except Fingolfin.

Fëanor continued to applaud as he thought that, of all the people in the world, only Finwë would have understood what his half-brother felt at the moment. Finwë, who had failed as a father and as a king.

 _'So badly have I done it?'_ , He remembered that he once heard his father ask Maedhros. _'My people prefer my son as king because I have neglected them and my children ... I have been a bad father and a bad king. And a worse husband. I dedicated so much time to Curufinwë, that I didn’t even see my other children. There are elves that fail as parents but succeed in their work. I have failed in both fields. The only child I paid attention to ... is the one who has broken up our family. '_

And, despite thinking like that, he had died defending the silmarils.

 

“Long face”, commented a voice at his side and a hand patted his shoulder. “What are you thinking about? It's the wedding of your only grandchild. Pretend to be happy.”  
“I was ... thinking of father, Lalwen”; he answered.

His sister made a sympathetic pout and looked around the circle.

“He’d have loved to see us like this”, she nodded, smiling. “I want more of these. Do you think we can convince Aredhel and Celegorm to be next?”  
“They already have it in plans. Don’t you dare? I heard you have a suitor.”

Lalwen frowned.

“Daeron is a good elf”, she murmured after a few seconds. “If it weren’t because he has too many things in common with a certain person.”

Fëanor followed the direction of her gaze: Maglor was next to Maedhros. Nemmireth, also dressed in blue and white, hung from his right arm.

“I would have liked you to be my daughter-in-law”, commented Fëanor with sincerity. She turned to look at him, bewildered. “What? You do not believe me? My problem with you is that you were my father's daughter. As a person ... I like you a lot. Usually.”  
“I like you too, brother”, she capitulated. “And my problem with you was that you had all Nolvo’s attention. Everyone’s jealous of whom they chooses, right?”  
“You should try”, he suggested. “With Daeron, I mean. Maybe life will surprise you.”  
“What if it goes wrong?”  
“Like Nerdanel and I, you mean?” half-smiled Fëanor. “Neither of you is a teenager, Lalwen.”  
“Neither did yours go so badly. Your children are worth ... uh ... most. Well, Maedhros and Caranthir are worth it. And Curufin: after all, he is the father of the groom.”  
“Tyelpë is worth it”, smiled the artisan with tenderness, observing his grandson. “Nolvo wrote you?”  
“No. Don’t you know anything about him?” Lalwen frowned.  
“I'm going to go see him.”  
“Tomorrow?”  
“After the holidays: Curufin insisted that I was here all the time.”  
“Maybe he wants to tell you something?” raised her sister's eyebrows, with malice.  
“You also know?” he was disconcerted.  
“Eh ... I may have seen ...”  
“Oh heavens! Do they do it anywhere?”  
“A kiss, Fëanor. I saw a kiss.”  
“I saw more than a kiss.”  
“Oh what an image! I have to tell Anairë!” she jumped excited. “I need details.”  
“ Why details? Is that what women spend time with?”  
“Anairë writes erotic novels. They are quite popular, by the way.”  
“I'm sure I did not read ...”  
“Nolvo has them all.”

Fëanor frowned. Finally, his expression lit up.

“Veanís? I thought they were a -Interesting. Anairë is very good.”  
“I’ll tell her. I think they're going to the party without us, " Lalwen pointed out and, grabbing his brother's forearm, she pulled him toward the open doors of the palace.

As soon as the royal family disappeared inside the building, the square was invaded by street performers and people started the common dances.

 

First the reception would take place, enlivened by delicacies and liquors. The queen gave the place of honor to the couple, who for hours received the congratulations of the guests and numerous presents. Several servants were available to the couple to collect the gifts that would then be transported to the house of the newlyweds.

Orodreth, Curufin and Gil were gathered at the side of the couple, keeping an eye on the mood of both, since it was known that they did not like big meetings that much. Elrond and Celebrían helped the couple to receive the gifts and distracted those who waited to congratulate them.

Fingon and Maedhros were doing diplomatic relations. Aredhel attracted everyone’s eyes: with her tall stature, her black hair and her exquisite white dress, she was the most impressive creature. Especially to be constantly followed by his cousin and his huge hound.

Aegnor, Angrod and Arothir polished a barrel of beer off, the drink had been adopted from the Dwarves and brought to Valinor by the last elves to take the boats. Galadriel and her husband stayed apart, meeting with the ambassadors of other courts; but after Fingon had passed by them twice and mocked that his cousin seemed to have caught Doriath's habits too quickly, Finarfin's daughter pulled Celeborn to force him to mingle with the people and half an hour later, she was arguing with Thranduil about the need to build a road linking Greenwood with Alqualondë.

Fëanor sighted Tauriel standing at a table, drinking alone and came over to her, smiling.

“A pleasure to see you again, Lady Tauriel”, he said.  
“Mhm”, she nodded, half hidden behind her glass. “I had forgotten how bad Thranduil had always been in mixing with the Golodhrim.”  
“He’s arguing with Galadriel, right?”  
“Well, at least he's communicating with her. He just growled at Gil-galad.”  
“Surprising. Everyone loves Gil.”  
“Eh ... I think it has something to do with the fact that Oropher and Gil-galad -I'm not sure; but I think they were lovers.”  
“As I said ... everyone loves Gil”, smiled the noldo, mischievously.  
“By the way, where's your brother?” she asked, scanning the presents over Fëanor's shoulder.  
“He’s not in the city”, sighed Fëanor.  
“Oh. I was hoping to meet the hero of the nursery rhymes, the Mad King of the Golodhrim.”  
“Today will not be, I'm sorry. Nolvo needed a break.”  
“It baffles me that you're not with him.” She studied him carefully for a few minutes. “You were anxious to see him again.”  
“It's only a few days”, he tried to smile.

Why did everyone seem so concerned with the fact that Fingolfin was not in Tirion? With him? After four days listening to the same questions and comments, Fëanor began to feel restless. Could it be that Fingolfin had another reason to be away from Tirion? Was he overlooking something?

He frowned when he realized that Tauriel was still watching him, intrigued.

“When you talk about him”, she said, hesitant, “it doesn’t seem that you speak of a brother.”  
“Nolvo is ... much more”, he admitted.  
“He knows? Does he know how much he means to you?”

Fëanor blinked, stunned.

“Yes. Do you…?”  
“I had my suspicions in Greenwood. After your departure, one night, Thranduil told me that ... when the time came, we would show our support.”  
“Your support?”  
“Elrond, Fingon and Maedhros have been gathering ... witnesses. People who support a union between the two of you. Mithrandir ... Olórin, I mean, has talked to several maiar too. The presence of many in this wedding is ... a diplomatic movement, a sign that we support the Royal House of Tirion.”  
"You could earn the Valar's punishment for openly supporting us," Fëanor reminded her, in a low voice, despite the heat that gratitude stirred within him.  
“I was born in Middle-earth, long after Sauron lost his ring, you know? The Valar for me are ... nursery rhymes. My husband does not think much about them either. On the other hand, it is a debt of gratitude, if you prefer.”  
“Gratitude?”  
“Légolas’s mother, Nínimeth, died during the wars against the fire snakes. It was before I was born. I grew up hearing that the soul of the queen had been destroyed by the fire of the dragons. When ... when Thranduil confessed to me that he loved me, that he had loved me for years while I was fooling around his son and then mourning Kíli’s death, I didn’t think there were obstacles to our union. His wife -his first wife -had disappeared from the world forever. When we arrived in Valinor, however, we learned that it wasn’t like that: Nínimeth remained in Timeless Halls for her own decision; but according to the law of the Valar, they were still considered married. King Thingol didn’t acknowledge our union: after all, I was only a sylvan, a simple guard and could never consider myself the wife of a former elf king. Thranduil departed from the Court of Doriath and created his own kingdom. Finarfin - _his advisors_ recognized the new kingdom only because it weakened Thingol’s power; but they didn’t recognize me as a queen either. Only when Fingolfin proposed the Law of Fingolfin and Anairë, Thranduil and I were recognized as a true marriage. Even indirectly, your brother gave us the freedom we needed. I have never seen him personally; but, when under the new law, Thranduil and I renewed our vows, Fingolfin sent us a gift with Elrond and Celebrían, wishing us many more years of happiness, openly acknowledging that he considered our marriage valid at all times. When the elf who challenged a god says your marriage is real, believe me: no one will deny it again.”

Fëanor smiled with a lump in his throat.

“ That's so –him” he said.  
“If the only way I have to thank him is to get on his side when the world turns against you ...” Tauriel shrugged. “Thranduil and I hope to be invited to your wedding, Prince Fëanor.”  
“I think we should first make sure that Nolvo accepts, do not you think?”  
“That he accepts what?”

Fëanor turned to face the female who had just intervened in the conversation.

“Eärwen ...” he greeted, foreseeing problems.  
“High Queen Eärwen”, Tauriel greeted, with a bow.  
“Queen Tauriel”, answered the teler. “My congratulations: your husband is the first man capable of making my daughter bite her nails helplessly. After Fingon, of course.”  
“Thank you. I suppose.”  
“Will you lend me ... brother-in-law?”

Fëanor concealed the grimace that was beginning to twitch in his mouth when Tauriel inclined her head and walked away in her husband's direction, the emerald-green dress flapping around her legs sensually.  
The redhead hung on Thranduil's arm while greeting Galadriel. Almost as if by magic, the king of Greenwood changed his expression, going from the cold arrogance with which he treated his former ally to a smile of adoration when speaking with his companion.

“Lovebirds” Eärwen grumbled, watching the scene. “All the great elves are puppies when in love.”  
“You say it from experience?” Fëanor scoffed.

She looked him up and down with cold like gems eyes. Fëanor almost took a step back, waiting for the explosion of anger and hatred, reproaches, accusations, insults ...

“You're not using the pearls.”  
“What?” Fëanor raised his eyebrows. “What pearls? Should I use pearls?”  
“Black. You should be using a fortune in black pearls.”  
“Ah ... I see. I am sorry to communicate you, beautiful Eärwen, that I do not have a _fortune in black pearls_. In fact, I do not own a single one of those valuable black pearls that your compatriots cultivate with such pride. It's been less than a year since the mines on my property started to make profits so my ... what does Moryo call it? Oh yeah! My monetary liquidity is ... scarce, hence I can’t pay the exorbitant prices of those precious pearls. Prices that, when it comes to me, I do not doubt that your compatriots will double or triple ...”  
“ You'll be stupid”, the female grumbled, narrowing her eyes in anger. “I'm talking about the pearls that Nolvo bought for you. He had them cultivated specifically to give them to you, with carefully chosen sizes. He had my three best pearl growers working alone for his benefit for a whole year to get the perfect pieces ... and you are not using them!”  
“Nolofinwë bought black pearls for me?” Fëanáro asked, blinking repeatedly.  
“What did I just say?” she became impatient; but then she noticed the man's stunned expression and frowned. “Wait ... he has not given them to you, right? Haven’t you talked to him?”  
“Not personally ... physical-ly, I mean. During this year we just ...”  
“Use osanwë?”  
“He ... he used osanwë to contact me -Did he buy me black pearls?” He repeated as an idiot smile began to curve his lips.  
“Did you become deaf or what? Pearls! He bought a dozen black pearls: he said you were fascinated by them.”

Fëanor was remembering the only time they talked about black pearls: the first time they had sexual contact, the first time he let his feelings for Fingolfin come out... and all that time, Fingolfin had not forgotten that he promised to give him black pearls .

“What did you say?” He inquired when he realized that Eärwen had spoken again.  
“I asked if you did not go to look for him as soon as you arrived.”  
“Nolvo left because he needs time alone. He does not like to be surrounded by many people and in this last year ...”  
“In this last year the only thing that that male did was count the days to see you again, idiot. I can’t believe that you have returned and you haven’t run to look for him in the same Void if necessary. I knew you did not deserve him.”  
“How do you say?” He raised his voice, attracting the gaze of several guests towards them.

Eärwen squeezed her lips and grabbing Fëanor by one hand, pulled him into a corner of the room, where they were protected from the curiosity of others by a column decorated with vine branches.

“ I always knew that you are not worthy of Arakáno”; replied the teler, with a sour tone. “You are an asshole and Nolvo is the best male in the world. I’d have preferred a thousand times that he choose another elf to give him his heart; but ... here you are. My only option to see him happy.”  
“Why are you so worried about the happiness of ...?”  
“Because he is the elf that I would have chosen if Anairë did not exist. Do not make wrong ideas: I married Arafinwë in love with him and while we lived together, no unfair idea went through my head, much less directed at my brother-in-law. But while I was part of this family, I got to know Nolvo. He’s the husband I’d have wanted for me. I hated you long before Alqualondë. Anairë and I hated you very much in the past. I still hate you: I don’t want you in my family”, she replied raising an eyebrow with disdain. “But, to protect my only friend’s happiness... I am willing to make a truce with you.”

Fëanor studied her with a frown.

“I have no personal complaint against you, Eärwen”, he declared at last. “Nolofinwë considers you an important person in his life. That's why I'm interested in a good relationship between us. Although right now I'm tempted to consider you a rival.”

The queen of the teleri pursed her mouth, adopting a childlike expression.

“No longer. Some time ago, you could be sure that I would not let you get away with it. If he had been willing, Anairë and I would have shared our life with Nolvo without hesitation.”

The noldo was stunned. Had they come to consider this possibility? What kind of females were Anairë and Eärwen?

“Anairë and I love each other deeply”, explained the queen as if she had read his thoughts. “And we both understand the feelings that the other has towards your brother. We lack nothing, Fëanáro, in our privacy; but to be able to share our happiness with the only true friend that we have possessed would only add happiness to our life in common. I'm telling you this because it's good to be alert. I can ... I can understand the circumstances that triggered the events of the past, I can deal with diplomatic problems ... but I will not tolerate you hurting Nolofinwë. If one day you hurt him again, I will cut off your private parts and give them to you to eat.”  
“That's disgusting”; declared Fëanor, blinking repeatedly.  
“I'm _that_ disgusting: ask your brother. Having said that, and as the bride's grandmother, I give you my permission to leave the party and go to look for Nolofinwë. I guess you'll be anxious to see those pearls.”

Fëanor smiled slightly and took a step to fulfill her order.

“Do you explain to my children ...?” he asked after thinking about it for a second.  
“Yes.”  
“Do I tell Nolvo that you miss him?”  
“Don’t worry: I'm going to tell him that if he gets tired of you, my house is open for him.”  
“I'm starting to worry”, he mumbled.  
“That just proves that you're still not aware of the treasure you have.”

The prince pouted; but finally he shook his head and headed for the exit.

He would go to his house, pick up what was necessary for the trip, and before dawn he would be on his way to Taniquetil, in whose skirts was the abode of Indis.

Eärwen was right: he must have gone after Fingolfin as soon as he knew he was gone. He had lost some precious days, days when he could have been enjoying the company of his beloved, savoring his lips, breathing his scent, losing himself in his body with the certainty that nothing would separate them now.

“Fëanáro!”

He stopped, recognizing the male voice that called him. He was already before the doors that opened to the square and turned impatiently in the place.

“Mahtan”, he greeted with a nod. “I hadn’t seen you among so many people.”  
“The same on my part”, confessed the leader of the Aulendili, approaching him with reddened cheeks as if he had run in pursuit. “I would have liked to talk to you before. I see you’re leaving ...”  
“I have ... important matters to attend to.”  
“Oh”, modulated Mahtan, reddening even more and nervously, he toyed with the garnet pendant that rested on his wide chest, supported by a copper chain. “I guess I caused many more problems than I imagined. I mean, I hadn’t wanted to believe that he left because of what I said; but ... I'm really sorry, Fëanáro: I just wanted to protect my daughter -you know how we parents are s and I thought -well, I'm pretty dense to notice things and ...” He raised his eyebrows, confused. “On the other hand, you have been very discreet, so it didn’t cross my mind ... Anyway, I’m really sorry for what I provoked -I mean, if I had not done the stupidity of talking to Nolofinwë about it, he would never have left without wait for your return ...”

Fëanor listened without understanding a word. What did Mahtan have to do with the departure of Nolofinwë? What had happened? How was it that Mahtan knew about his relationship with Nolofinwë?

“What did you talk about with Nolofinwë?” demanded in a hiss.  
“Well, about Nerdanel and you -you know! She was all excited and I thought that if someone could make you see reason -It was stupid, I know; but I thought -and since he did not react, only ...”  
“He did not react ?!” Fëanor exploded. “Did you tell him that Nerdanel thought I was going to go back to her? And he did not react?”  
“Eh ... no”, the older elf frowned.  
“Nolvo never reacts, Mahtan! He thought I had betrayed him! Oh gods!” He gasped, clutching his chest with one hand, understanding at last the silence, the emptiness in his soul: Fingolfin had withdrawn completely, as before ... like thousands of years ago. He left because of me. And I ... I did not go looking for him -he believes ... By Eru, Mahtan, how could you?!”  
“I thought you would really go back to Nerdanel -and I wanted her -I thought it was a bad idea; but she did not listen to me -and Hyellë and I believed that Nolofinwë ...”  
“I don’t love Nerdanel!” Fëanor shouted, clenching his fists. “Even though she was the last elf on earth, I would never go back to her. I only want one person ... I only want an elf,” he repeated, with a lost expression. “I have to explain -to tell him that it's a lie -that there's nobody ...”  
"My horse’s in the stable," Mahtan reported, and when Fëanor looked at him, his pupils out of focus, he explained more slowly: "My horse. It is a good animal. A gift from Oromë. It will make the trip in half the time. Take it ... take it as an apology”, he sighed. “Towards both of you.”

Fëanor blinked and turned, ran towards the stables. He did not even thank his ex-father-in-law: the only thing that filled his mind was the need to see Fingolfin, to appease his doubts, to recover him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Veanís: (q) vea: manly; nís: woman; manly woman.  
> * Nínimeth (s): Snowdrop (the flower) +eth (female).


	35. Chapter 35

Indis knotted the hat under her chin and went out into the garden. Although the sun was beginning to descend already, its rays were still strongly affecting that part of the property. She was supposed to have picked the flowers in the morning; but neither of her two guests had agreed to her leaving them during breakfast. It was not as if she could have refused their demands either: that morning, after months of lying in bed with barely enough strength to utter short sentences and drink broths, Míriel had sat for more than two hours for the first time.

It was painful for Indis to see her adolescent friend - that swallow full of vitality and joy - turned into a silk and porcelain doll that smiled faintly, a shadow of what she was. In the last days, finally, some of the old light had returned to Míriel. And it was thanks to Fingolfin.

Indis took the scissors and cut a perfect white rose. She smelled it before depositing it in the basket that hung on her other arm.

It was a relief to see Fingolfin emerge from his depression. Indis did not need anyone to tell her the cause of her son's suffering: she knew Fingolfin as she knew the lines of her own hands. His pain had a name: Fëanáro.

Indis sometimes wondered if it had not been better for them to follow her instinct in the past - the instinct that told her that her son would be much happier if he lived with his older brother instead of in the palace. Fëanor would never have left the elf to grow up as one of his children. Or maybe already at that moment, their relationship would have ended in what it was today.

Indis was not blind. She knew the signs of a broken heart and knew her son. Although everyone believed that it was natural for her to be closer to Finarfin - who inherited her golden beauty and gentle character - or to her daughters, who were close to the widowed queen they knew that among her children the closest one to her heart was Fingolfin. Indis and Fingolfin understood each other with a glance, they knew each other until they were able to predict the other's way according to the clothes they chose, _they were one._

For the world, Fingolfin was a statue of ivory and diamond, an exquisite jewel that no one could decipher; for Indis, he was an open book in which she could read the darkest secrets of his soul.

At a glance the day of his arrival, Indis knew everything that was happening to her son: she knew of the discovery of his feelings towards Fëanor, of his struggle against those feelings, of his total surrender, of his sacrifice when taking the crown and away Fëanor for the good of all, of his anxiety to give the crown and going back to him, of his despair when something happened that made him see that everything had been a dream ... Indis knew that for the first time Fingolfin had given his heart to the point of renouncing even his sense of responsibility and in some way, that love had failed him.  
Had Finarfin been the one to come to her at that moment in his life, Indis would have opened her arms and let him cry in her lap. Had it been Findis, she would have sat for hours with her philosophizing about the pain of a broken heart. Had it been Lalwen, she would have accompanied her to drink and rant against the one who broke her heart. But whoever came to her was Fingolfin and Indis knew that all she could do was wait, wait for him to decide to open his armor and expose his wound.

Fingolfin had always been like this, Indis recalled as she cut one after another ears of lavender. Already as a child when he received a wound during his games, instead of running to her crying and looking for comfort, Fingolfin cleaned the scratches by himself and only when she, Fëanor or the nanny discovered the bandage they were aware of the incident.  
Occasionally, Indis felt helpless. She would have liked to hug her son until that shell of ice and diamond snapped and she could hold him until all the pain was gone forever. But Fingolfin would not accept consolation, would not seek it. When he was able to talk about what happened without his gaze faltering, Fingolfin would tell her everything. Never before.

This time, however, Indis feared that Fingolfin would never overcome his pain. That's why she made the decision to take him to Míriel. And it had been a wise decision: both had fit perfectly.

Míriel possessed the stubborn and brilliant character that her son inherited, the perfect balance for Fingolfin. The male exercised in her the same influence as in Fëanor, balancing and encouraging her when the mood decayed. Indis enjoyed seeing them together, laughing and whispering as if they had known each other all the time. She wanted to see them always like this, to be able to delight in the vision of two beings that she believed lost for her.

The death of Míriel in the beatitude of Aman left a deep emptiness in the soul of Ingwë's niece. Although Finwë remained at her side, nothing could fill Míriel's place. Indis loved Fëanor because he was the son of his parents; but she did not receive love in return. By the time Finwë was killed by Morgoth, the passionate love that once he inspired to her second wife had paled to a mere conventional tenderness: Indis could understand many of his attitudes; but she did not accept that he was not willing to put a stop to Fëanor's paranoia. Nobody wanted to steal his damned throne! Anyone with eyes on their face would have seen that the last thing Fingolfin wanted was to sit on that throne for twelve years and give up his life, as he was eventually forced to do.

 

_'You are a terrible father. And now you prove to be a lousy king. '_

 

Indis would always remember the last words she said to Finwë with sadness; but without remorse. She still believed them. However, Finwë had finally made a generous decision: to change his chance to reincarnate for an opportunity for Míriel to come back to life.

She could not understand what Námo explained to her when she was summoned to his presence. For a moment, she believed that her husband only chose death to remain with his firstborn, who was said to stay in Mandos until the end of Arda. Then the Vala declared that instead Míriel would be reincarnated if such was her decision and Indis saw a new light. She was jealous, of course: was her, he would have made the same decision? Despite how much she loved Míriel, Indis could never stop feeling threatened. Not for her, no! But for the guilt that Finwë felt for her destiny.

_'Míriel will come to live with me.'_ It was the only thing the queen declared after Námo fell silent.

The Souls' Keeper pursed his blue lips slightly and nodded silently.

_'I'll let you know when she’s ready, Vánima.'_

Indis had always enjoyed being called by the Vala for her epessë rather than by her name or her title. And so it was like two months after that interview, Indis was visited by two maiar de Mandos to go in search of her friend.

It had been almost a year and for the first time, Indis saw that Míriel began to glow as she had in the past.

With a sigh, the dowager queen straightened up and watched Taniquetil. It was an irony that she had ended up living in its shadow when in her first youth she had been desperate to escape the restriction of the Vanyarin court. The memories of those early years in which going against the laws of the Valar was unthinkable for an elf, for a female, were too clear in her memory. She remembered when Míriel was forced to marry Finwë when her pregnancy was discovered just a week after she conceived and suddenly the world that she (which the three of them had drawn in their minds) collapsed completely. Finwë had been weak, eager to please the Valar and Míriel had chosen the only way she had left to escape, and Indis? What option was left to Indis but wait? To wait years and years until Finwë managed to overcome the guilt and could at least recover a part of happiness? A happiness in which a third party would be missing forever?

Shaking her head, Indis entered the house. She was melancholy and agitated since dawn. Her bones told her something was about to happen and she was not sure if it would be good. She remembered that her bones had shuddered just the same hour before the maid arrived saying that Prince Fëanáro had attacked Nolofinwë.

Immersed in these memories, Indis left the basket on the table and looked for a jug to fill it with water.

When she turned around, her eyes dilated and the container slipped from her hands crashing to the ground.

 

Fëanor took a few short breaths to get his voice obeyed. Turning away from the jamb on which he leaned, he took a few steps into the kitchen and bowed.

“Ma’am…”  
“Curufinwë ... “ she replied, showing no intention of collecting the glass and water disaster at her feet.  
“I'm sorry I scared you. I come…”

Indis blinked when he broke off. Had Námo informed him of Míriel's release? Was that why he was there? Did he come alone to see his mother? Or to accuse her of having stolen her as he already accused her of stealing Finwë's love? Silly boy! How can you steal something that has always belonged to you?

“Can I offer you some water?” Indis suggested softly. “It looks like you've come running.”  
“No, I do not want anything. I want -I want to see Nolofinwë. Where…?”  
“My son is inside. Follow me please.”

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

“... we walked for hours. My feet hurt and I kept whining. I was also cold; but Fëanor didn’t want to stop: he refused to admit that we were lost! After hours and hours, we returned to the starting point. I never saw him so bewildered, as if he could not believe he was wrong. Without saying a word, he took a step in the opposite direction to the one he had chosen the previous time; but I started crying loudly and I fell on the floor. Fëanor became a bundle of nerves when I cried ... and I knew it,” Fingolfin admitted guiltily. “He took me in his arms and sat under the tree, cooing. A little ridiculous, really, I was already about fifteen years old and I could barely sit on his lap; but I didn’t complain. So we stayed until the palace guards found us in the early hours of Laurelin.”

Míriel smiled enchanted to hear the anecdotes that the young elf told her. Fingolfin possessed a broad command of words and his voice was grave and fickle. The Embroideress no longer doubted that the inner power of the son of Indis was channeled into his oratory. Besides, he was a true vision: unlike most elves, who possessed an androgynous beauty, Fingolfin had inherited the hardness of traits of the pure Noldor. The first time she saw him, Míriel had observed intrigued the tousled hair gathered in a tangle on the top of the head and the beard that covered the line of the jaw and the chin completely, highlighting the pale skin and the deep blue eyes. Now, however, Fingolfin looked gorgeous with his straight hair pulled back by two braids tied together at the back of his head and the beard only covering his chin, just below the mouth of sensual lips.

Míriel did not need a confirmation to guess where the relationship between Fingolfin and her son had ended.

“Typical of a son of mine”, she replied with a soft laugh when Fingolfin concluded the story. “Not give his arm to twist.”  
"Beautiful women can be tolerated by any stubbornness, madam," Fingolfin stressed, raising an eyebrow.  
“Oh ... in something I agree with Fëanor: you are a manipulator, boy”, she scolded, throwing the napkin that was on her lap.

They sat in the music room and the afternoon light coming through the windows, tinting shades of pink and salmon. Míriel occupied a cushioned chair and rested her feet on a footstool.

Fingolfin was sitting in a chair on her right and picked cookies crumbs from the dish with a finger when the delicate projectile was thrown at him. He caught the linen square in the air and frowned.

“What manners, my lady. At least I know from who inherited Celegorm that terrible character, and I so far blamed Oromë for my nephew’s bad behavior!”  
“You won’t make me ashamed: I have thick skin.”  
“Well, you look like porcelain, my beautiful lady.” He pretended surprise.  
“Do you usually be that flattering to all the females you've just met?”  
“And with some he doesn’t even know”, answered Indis entering.  
“It's not true”, frowned Fingolfin.  
“Yes it is. Half of my maids were in love with you.”  
“And the other half?” Fingolfin asked, intrigued.

Míriel laughed while Indis watched his son with a raised eyebrow.

“Outside, kid. You have a visit”, she reported severely.  
“From Tirion?” Fingolfin paled, standing up straight away. “Did something else happen ...? Is Findis right?”  
“Ask yourself. They did not come to see me.”

Fingolfin clenched his fists and ran out of the room.

“Something happened?” Míriel interested.  
“I do not think so”, shook his head Indis.  
“Better. Arakáno is having a much better time so he has to return.”  
“Do you want to appropriate him, Þerindë?” Indis mocked, sitting in the chair abandoned by her son.  
“He's a wonderful boy. Very attractive. But he is very much in love with my son.”  
“Well,” Indis sighed; “we'll know how that turns out before the day ends.”  
“Why do you say that?” Arched the silver eyebrows Míriel.  
“Honey, your son is here.”  
Míriel held her breath, impressed.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

Fingolfin burst into the receiving room. He feared that further disturbances would have occurred and that Findis was in trouble. Although his sister had the support of all his nephews - who formed a formidable army - he would not be at ease knowing that she was facing problems in the second week of her reign. He looked for the messenger and almost backed toward the door when he saw who was waiting for him.

Fëanor's clothes were dusty and disheveled; but its elegance was still visible. Only one ruby earring remained on the left ear and the hair was disheveled, scrambled over shoulders and back. The brightness of the varnished boots had been overshadowed by the dry mud and he had managed to lose several of the gold clasps that closed the calves of his black silk trousers. And still, Fingolfin considered him the most beautiful vision of the universe.

Fëanor did not move in his direction, devouring with his eyes every detail that changed that year, every detail that did not change. Breath was knotted in his chest. So many things to say, so many explanations, so many doubts to clarify ... and the only thing he could think about was to pounce on him and replace all the words with kisses, caresses ... was not it a universal truth that a drop of action is worth more than a torrent of words?

Fingolfin saw the glare in the mercurial eyes, saw the trembling of the hands that almost extended in his direction, saw the movement with which his brother was ahead ... and took a step back.

Fëanor froze. Fingolfin was rejecting him. He was running away from him. Fingolfin was putting distance between them. Desperate, he launched his mind in search of the other elf's. For a second, the blue eyes widened, bewildered; but immediately, a wall of ice rose before him, pushing him outside, banishing him.

Fingolfin's face was a perfect mask, the representation of pride and calm. The Aran-i-Heleg of the Sindarin.

“To what do I owe your visit?” Fingolfin asked coldly. “Has anything happened in Tirion that requires my presence?” When Fëanor did not respond, clenching his fists, he added: “The wedding? ... Everything’s right?”  
“Perfect. As you planned, " Fëanor hissed with effort.

Fingolfin narrowed his eyes, feeling that those words were an accusation.

“Then, the reason for your presence here ...”

The elder pressed his lips. A part of him wanted to turn around and leave: after all, Fingolfin had fled without even waiting for an explanation. However, the part of himself that longed to retrieve the elf in front of him was stronger ... stronger than the Imperishable Flame.

“You”, he declared, advancing one step.  
“I?” his half-brother scoffed, retreating.  
“You, Nolofinwë. You left. You left Tirion without waiting for my return, without seeing me. I thought you needed time alone. When I learned what happened with that young and Turgon's letter, I thought it was best to give you a chance to assimilate it. Then, at the wedding, Eärwen told me that you bought me pearls ...”

Fingolfin frowned.  
Fëanor had continued to advance as the other stepped back, circling the room like a child's game. The craftsman smiled, feeling the blood warm in his veins.

“Eärwen talks too much”; Fingolfin growled, looking away.  
“She speaks the necessary. She was worried about you. And I'm jealous”; he confessed. “He said she would have torn you from me if you loved her. Loved them. She and Anairë.”  
“Ridiculous.”  
“It made me finally see how much I was worried about your departure. How much I missed you. I was determined to come looking for you after the wedding; but then I met with Mahtan ...”  
“Ah”, raised an eyebrow Fingolfin the moment his back hit the wall; “I see. You come to explain to me ...”  
“There is nothing to explain”, said Fëanor. “I'm not going to marry Nerdanel. I never planned ...”  
“It was not what it seemed to everyone”, Fingolfin shrugged and tried to sneak to the side.  
“Everyone?” Fëanor roared, stamping a hand on the wall next to his head. “You too?”  
“I did not even know that Nerdanel had gone to Greenwood”; he declared coldly and moved to the other side.

Fingolfin stopped when Fëanor's other hand blocked his way. Ridiculous: he was trapped against the wall by the body of his half-brother, and his own body was reacting to the closeness! The smell of Fëanor's sweat flooded his nose and made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

“I love you”, declared Fëanor in a low, passionate voice. “I have not thought of anything else than to have you in my arms again this year. Those nights you were looking for me -were the glory. I have missed you so much -your smell, your taste, your skin -your voice -You are my mate -you are the elf with whom I want to spend eternity, wake up every morning -I want to sleep listening to the beating of your heart ... I want to be yours for always -There is no one - there has never been anyone to make me feel this -I do not care if you have to keep playing the perfect prince. I do not care if we only have the nights to show our real love. I do not mind living in the shadows to be by your side. You are my mate, Nolofinwë. You're the owner of my heart. I want to be with you. I want -I want to help you to build your dreams, to be by your side so you can tell me how your day was ... I want you to relieve yourself with me and that I am the first to listen to your ideas. I want to support you and accompany you -and I promise -I promise that I will never tire of the path you have chosen. I promise you always ...”  
“Marry me.”

Fëanor was stunned. His pupils dilated, fixed in the eyes of Fingolfin, who watched him with determination.

“What…”  
“Marry me”, repeated the younger, without hesitation. “With votes and ceremony included. And ... bracelets. I did -I have -a pair ... that's what the black pearls were for -I ... " He broke off, afraid he had gone ahead. “You want to marry me, right? You don’t say anything.” He waited a few seconds. “You still don’t say anything.” He hissed as he raised his hands to put them on Fëanor's chest and push him.

Immediately, Fëanor covered Fingolfin's fists with his hands and when he looked at him, frowning, he bent down to kiss him on the lips.

Fingolfin did not even pretend to fight: voluntarily, he opened his mouth and gave way to the tongue that anxiously invaded his cavity.

For a few seconds, they kissed in that position; but finally, Fëanor moved a hand to encircle his waist and Fingolfin raised his to intertwine them in the back of his brother's neck. The kiss, which started almost nervous, became more and more passionate and after a moment, both panting as they nibbled and licked.

Fëanor took one of Fingolfin's legs and lifted it up to encircle his hip, thrusting more between his thighs, rubbing their hard sexes through the clothes. He kissed Fingolfin’s neck and ear, tasting with long licks the skin that was gradually covered with a fine perspiration.

The ecstasy moistened their pants at the same time. Fingolfin clung to his lover's shoulder and hair, with his head thrown back and his eyelids low. Fëanor buried his face in the gap between his brother’s shoulder and neck, resting his weight against him, breathing raggedly.

“You haven’t answered me”, Fingolfin recalled in a soft voice, moving his fingers in the hair of his half-brother.  
“I need to do it?” half-smiled Fëanor against his skin.  
“I want to hear it” he insisted, inflexible.  
“Yes”, declared the older, raising his face to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, I'm going to marry you ...”

Each statement was accompanied by a short kiss until Fingolfin grabbed him by the sides of his head and kissed him hard.

After a moment, they pulled away, panting.

“Room”, said Fingolfin, trying to organize his ideas. “I have a -a room ...”  
“How good you remember it.”

Both males froze at the female voice.

As two teenagers caught in a compromising situation, Fëanor and Fingolfin separated and turned around in front of Indis, who watched them with arms crossed under her breasts.

“Mother…”  
“And since you remember that you have a room, maybe you can use it to clean up and make yourself presentable while your brother does the same. In another room. Far from yours.”  
“Mother!”  
“I will not tolerate two hours in the bathroom. Serious affairs first, Arakáno; pleasure later.”  
“Madam ...” Fëanor intervened, embarrassed.  
“You too, Curufinwë. You are supposed to be the oldest and the most responsible.”  
“Arguably ...” Fingolfin mumbled.  
“To bathe the two. And I want you in the dining room in half an hour. Arakáno, to your bedroom. Fëanáro, come with me.”

 

Half an hour later, the two elves were led by Indis to her private quarters. The queen widow opened the door that led to the living room and gave way to the two.

Fëanor's eyes fell on the she-elf seated in the armchair and his body tensed.

Noticing, Fingolfin took a step in his direction; but Indis stopped him by the hand, gently. When he looked at her, the vanya denied imperceptibly.

Fëanor advanced cautiously, as if he were not sure it was an illusion of his senses.

Míriel, on the other hand, looked at him anxiously. Seeing his image in Vairë's tissues did not compare to contemplating her son face to face.

In total silence, Fëanor stopped in front of his mother and watched her from above. She raised her hands; but as he did not move, she lowered them back into her lap.

“You are beautiful”, declared Míriel, with eyes flooded with tears. “Arakáno is right: you are the most beautiful creature in the world.”  
"Nolvo usually says a lot of nonsenses," Fëanor muttered and dropped to his knees before her to sink his face into the folds of her skirt.

Míriel froze. Sobs shook her son's broad shoulders and immediately, she spread her hands to caress his hair as she leaned over and began to kiss him on the head frantically.

 

Instinctively, Fingolfin approached his mother. Indis sighed slyly and wrapped his own son in her arms.


	36. Chapter 36

The sun descended in the west, sinking behind the mountains on the horizon. While its final rays colored the still surface of the lake, taking off bright flashes, a group emerged from each house and advanced to the wooden benches located on one side of the lake, where the shared dock was built.

The Fëanorion were dressed in red and black. The cloaks, which had been turned over one shoulder, were embroidered with gold on the hem and the black leather boots were closed at the sides by a succession of buckles adorned with rubies. On the right shoulder, everyone wore the eight-pointed star, similar to a fire-flower.

In front of the retinue of the Fëanorion marched Maedhros, wearing for the first time a diadem of gold and rubies. He was followed by Maglor and Nemmireth, also dressed in red and black and both wearing crowns as members of the Royal Household. Then Celegorm and Caranthir marched, like two sides of the same coin: equal height, equal build, one's black curls adorned by a gold and emerald tiara, the silver curls of the other sown with aquamarines. Behind them came Curufin, accompanied by Celebrimbor and Finduilas, whose belly began to swell in the fifth month of pregnancy. The twins closed the march, identical even in their gestures, smiling like children when spotting the opposite group.

The House of Fingolfin wore blue and silver. They wore high-stiff neck robes that opened to the front to show white shirts. The straight skirts, open to the front and sides, allowed to see the tight navy blue pants and high boots of white leather. Blue silk girdles embroidered in silver girdled their waists. Wide layers rested on their shoulders, joined on their chests by chains of silver from which hung sapphire stars.

Fingon led the way, followed by Gil-galad and Lalwen, the only one of Finwë's children who did not claim a shield for herself or turn away from the brother to whom she swore her allegiance so long ago. In the third place came Turgon and Elenwë, accompanied by Aredhel, who wore white; but she wore the blue night coat and a turquoise crown. Behind this trio marched Idril and Lomion, each carrying one of their children. At the end of the group marched Elrond and Celebrían, with Elrohir and Elladan flanking them.

The two groups met in front of the benches and greeted each other with formal bows.

“This is ridiculous”, raised an eyebrow Fingon when they straightened and looked at each other again.  
“Grandma insisted”, Maedhros reminded him, smiling. “Don’t pretend: you love these shows.”  
“Whatever” Fingolfin's firstborn shrugged his shoulders; but a smile curved his mouth as he went to his seat.

 

Most of the banks were already occupied by the rest of the guests.

Anairë and Eärwen sat near the children of the first. Behind they were Angrod and Aegnor, since Orodreth was with Finarfin in Lórien. Arothir, Angrod’s son, was accompanied by his fiancée, a teler who looked around with curiosity, fascinated to see up close the famous Kinslayers and the great Kings of the Noldor. Galadriel sat next to her daughter and son-in-law: she had come alone since Celeborn had refused to challenge Thingol's order to have someone from his court attend the celebration (a ban that others ignored, Galadriel discovered with rage at the sight of Beleg Cúthalion occupying a bank near the Fëanorion and engaged in conversation with Caranthir while Mablung greeted Glorfindel and Ecthelion before sitting down next to them). Daeron the Bard managed to take a place next to Lalwen without the princess grumbling -too much.

Others had also come: Erestor, of course, sat in one of the front rows, conversing with Duilin and Rog, who for some reason carried the twin sons of Turgon, two little boys with black hair and crystal-blue eyes that laughed constantly as if they had done some devilry. Légolas had sat down with Elrond's children while Thranduil was talking to Tauriel, who was smiling amused when she saw that her children were trying to win the attention of beautiful Aredhel, something that did not seem to make much fun of a certain Fëanorion. Noticing Celegorm’s gaze, Thranduil hit the biggest of his children with Tauriel and forced him to take responsibility for his younger brother.

“Noldo!” exclaimed Amrod and Amras at the same time to see the scene, and burst into laughter before someone sat next to them.

Both of them watched fascinated the elf with golden hair and tall stature, with the feeling of having seen before that luminous face.

“Eh ... cousin”, said one of the twins; “the part of the Nolofinwion is on the other side.”  
“I know. My mother suggested that I sit with you. For the history of the silmaril, you know”, he explained with rosy cheeks.” Your father will not bother to see me, right?”  
"My father will not be bothered by anything today, Eärendil," Caranthir reassured him, turning around. “Welcome to the family.”  
“You should come more to visit us,” suggested Amrod, changing places to put Eärendil between his brother and him.  
“It is not easy to go down often”, sighed the bearer of the silmaril.  
“We do not offer to help you because it would not look good if we were close to that thing ...”  
“Besides, we are terrible sailors”, his brother added, confidentially. “We would sink your ship in the first week.”  
“A ship can’t sink in the sky”, Eärendil pointed, raising an eyebrow.  
“Believe me: we would find a way.”

Eärendil was about to refute his cousins’ statements when the silence fell and everyone turned towards the houses.

Those present would have wanted to have eyes on the back of the head to see the bride and groom move forward at the same time.

The news of Míriel’s return had spread among the population of Tirion several months ago; but even so, seeing her was an impression for almost everyone present. None of the guests, with the exception of Master Rúmil, had met Finwë's first wife before her death. Seeing her walk on the arm of her only son, it was clear who would inherit Fëanor's expressive beauty and impressive look.

Míriel wore a red dress that fit her torso to open in a wide skirt which crawled on her feet on the grass. The curly silver hair was adorned with a ruby headband and under her breasts, the draping of the neckline was retained by the eight-pointed star. Her head barely reached Fëanor's shoulder; but she looked like a queen.

Míriel's hand rested on the inside of Fëanor's elbow. The prince covered his mother's fingers with his own; but his gaze was fixed on the elf advancing on him from the other house.  
He also wore red and black; but he wore no jewels and his black hair descended loose to the waist, framing his beautiful face.

On the other hand, Fingolfin and Indis almost seemed like a couple more than mother and son. Both possessed the same high stature and behaved with equal majesty.

Indis, dressed in a silver-blue dress, wore her hair up in a low runner strewn with white pearls. A white belt embroidered in silver surrounded her waist and the opening on the left side of her skirt showed her firm leg, adorned with silver chains from knee to ankle. A network of tiny stars rested on top of her bust, from the base of her neck to the beginning of breasts. A divine appearance, without doubts.

Fingolfin wore a night blue doublet, whose sleeves opened from the elbow left bare the muscular forearms. The front of the garment was closed by silver pins with four-pointed stars as closures. The skirts of the doublet fell to his knees, above the black leggings.

 

Both couples arrived at the same time at the meeting point, in the middle of the banks. They greeted each other with a bow and Fingolfin kissed Míriel's hand while Fëanor did the same with Indis. When he stood up again, Fingolfin raised an eyebrow and commented, mockingly:

“The dream of my life: to find you when I reach the lake.”  
“I hope that today you do not have the same intentions as in Mithrim”, answered Fëanor, in the same tone.

“Behave”, ordered Indis, with feigned severity. And taking a step forward, she added in a loud voice: “Take this present, Curufinwë Fëanáro, as a sign of my affection towards you and my pride for being able to call you 'son'.”

Fëanor inclined his head so that Indis would put the chain from which hung a pendant in the shape of a sapphire star. Gently, Indis adjusted the pendant to show the carved surface as it rested between the lapels of the red tunic.

It was Míriel's turn to step forward to offer her gift to her son-in-law.

“ I am proud to call you 'son', Nolofinwë Arakáno”, she declared with a smile. “And I'm glad you've had enough patience to deal with this stubborn”, she sighed.

Fingolfin smiled as he bent down to get his head within reach of the petite female. Míriel, like her friend, arranged the earring with a diamond tear inside which the image of a fire flower was captured and then, she slid her hands up to Fingolfin's shoulders to caress the solitary braid that descended in front of his left ear.

Both females retreated, leaving the boyfriends alone.

Fëanor looked at the elf in front of him as if he still did not believe that this was happening. After a few seconds, Fingolfin frowned and watched him, worried.

“Don’t say you regret it!” Fingon exclaimed from his seat, earning a bump. “You're thinking it too, Turgon,” he replied, turning to his attacker.  
“You're hopeless”, grunted his younger brother.  
“No”, reassured them Fëanor, laughing. “How could I regret it?”  
“Well, luckily you clarify it”, sighed Fingolfin, “because I also began to believe it.”  
“No joke”, smiled the older and took a velvet bag from his pocket. Turning the contents in the palm of his hand, he began to say: “What can I tell you that you don’t already know? What have I not tell you in these two years? What can I tell you that is romantic enough and at the same time contains everything you mean to me? You are my life, Nolvo. You are the joy, the laughter, the hope, the strength that fills me. You are my soul. You’ve always been: I loved you from the first moment I set my eyes on you. From the first moment our hands touched, I knew that I was attached to you forever. I have fought against that bond. I have fought with all my strength against what bound me to you; but each effort was more useless than the previous one: each time you tied me more to you -until the bond that was of brothers, of friends -became a chain that I love to feel around me. I love you with all the love there may be between two elves, Nolofinwë Arakáno, son of Finwë and Indis, and I promise to take you in my heart and join my soul to yours beyond the end of Arda, putting Eru Ilúvatar as a witness to my promise. You don’t belong to me because you are free to be by my side or not; but I do belong to you for all eternity. I beg you, Nolvo, accept to wear my ring.”

Fingolfin looked down at the two rings in his companion's palm. Silently, he extended his right hand.

Although they were there precisely to see this, the guests could not contain a sigh of relief when Fëanor slid the ruby ring on his companion's ring finger with trembling hands. Without a word, Fingolfin took the other ring and put it in Fëanor's hand.

Slowly, Fingolfin took the other half-brother's hand and held the two in front of him, slowly intertwining their fingers.

“The Avari have a belief”, he began slowly, without raising his voice much, causing everyone to lean forward to hear him better. “They affirm that each being comes to the world tied to another. According to their legends, that other being is actually half of the soul that we were in the Imperishable Flame. We may have the fortune to find our other half or maybe not. Some of us are fortunate enough to find it, recognize it -and retain it. It isn’t about love or fidelity, according to them; it is something much deeper, something that binds us before the beginning of time and beyond the Void. No matter our race, our blood, our side in a war: two destined mates will feel the pull of the thread of destiny until they yield. To reject our destined companion is to condemn ourselves to emptiness, to fear -to renounce the possibility of knowing a love that no one can describe.” He looked up from his four interlocked hands to look into Fëanor's eyes. “I am certain that I found you, Curufinwë. Many doubt our love because we are so different ... and they are right. Where you’re fire, I’m water. Where you’re wind, I’m stone. Where you’re light, I’m darkness. We can’t be the same because we’re two sides of the same coin. You balance me. You complete me. You are all that I lack and that’s why we are destined to remain together: because one cannot exist without the other. The others can give us the name they want: husbands, brothers, criminals, sinners ... I know that you are my destiny as I’m yours, Fëanáro. I’ll make not promises to you: Eru Ilúvatar knows that you possess my heart as I possess yours.”

Without waiting for the reaction of his companion, who looked at him with eyes that were filled with tears, Fingolfin pulled him to join their mouths in a soft kiss.

“Shit! I'm crying”, exclaimed Aegnor, causing a burst of laughter.

The newlyweds separated, laughing and turned their faces to look at the guests who began to applaud enthusiastically while many wipe their eyes with dissimulation.

 

The night progressed while music was heard and wine circulated among those present. Maglor and Daeron played and sang fashionable songs. Lalwen, Galadriel and Celebrían danced hand in hand while Aegnor and Angrod took a pulse with Rog and Ecthelion respectively, animated by Ambarussar and Eärendil. Turgon and Elenwë were taking care of their children and grandchildren with the help of Elrond and Erestor while Lómion and Idril danced in arms at one end of the circle.

Fëanor and Fingolfin were sitting together. The eldest played with his husband’s hair, who conversed with Anairë and Eärwen. Indis and Míriel had retired a while ago, since the Embroideress still needed to rest to recover her energy completely.

“When I say so”, the teleri queen complained when she saw how Fëanor rested his head on Fingolfin's shoulder and sighed contentedly. “Y’all become idiots when you fall in love.”  
“I remember you said 'all the great elves' “; commented Fëanor without looking at her as he interlaced his fingers with those of his partner. “Are you implying that you consider me a 'great elf'?”  
“You beat Nolvo, right? You have to be better than us two together. That reminds me -Nolvo, if this imbecile makes you feel bad ...”  
“Do not hesitate to call us”, Anairë finished for her, nodding enthusiastically.  
“I'll keep it in mind”, bowed Fingolfin.

Fëanor pouted and raised his face to face the other male.

“You hurt me, dear. Do you really think that I would hurt you? When you are my whole life ...”  
“I think your husband is drunk, Arakáno”, Anairë pointed out, pretending to whisper.  
“I'm not drunk”, answered Fëanor, squinting. “I'm disappointed: I'm supposed to be on my honeymoon already.”  
“If you want so ...” Fingolfin said and getting up, took Fëanor in bridal style and started walking towards the dock.

 

Silence was made when Fingolfin passed between the guests with his husband in his arms, heading to where the yacht was moored.

“Oh Vairë!” Fingon exclaimed, bursting into laughter. “I’d love to have that image recorded for a lifetime.”  
“I’d like never to see that again”, grumbled Curufin, who occupied the other side of the table.  
“Well, you better prepare yourself”, commented Gil-galad stopping by his side to take his hand; “because we'll be next. Dance with me, Curufin.”

Curufin stood up all flushed and let himself be guided by his lover, ignoring the petrified gaze that Fingon directed them over the edge of the glass. When both elves stopped in the middle of the clearing and Gil drew his cousin to his body to embrace him intimately, Fingon threw the cup while coughing and spitting the wine.

“No!” He cried between gasps and breathlessness, trying to get up. “I won’t allow that!”  
“Calm down, love”, Maedhros held him, resting a hand on his shoulder to sit down.  
“How will I calm down ?!” shouted Fingon. “Your brother is going to marry our baby! No, Maedhros! I won’t let that idiot be my son-in-law. Ereinion deserves someone sweet and adorable, not a troublemaker with bad temper.”  
“ Let it be our son who decides that, yes? It's his life, after all.”  
“But -but…”

“An announcement all over the world!”

The music stopped and Fingon stopped protesting to focus on his sister, who was standing on a table, resting a hand on Celegorm's head.

“They're treating me, right?” Aredhel declared and searched among those present. “Where is dad?”  
“Honeymoon!” Turgon grumbled, lulling Lómetari in his arms.  
“Ah well ... then he’s forgiven”, shrugged Aredhel. “Let's see: I know that everyone is waiting for Celegorm and I to announce the date of the wedding; but ... you'll have to wait a little longer.”  
“Longer?” Caranthir frowned. “Are you trying to unseat Finrod?”  
“Not so much, brother-in-law. Only until the baby is born.” As everyone watched her, mouth agape, Aredhel smiled broadly and added, pointing to her belly: “That's right. Here there is a beautiful little cutie growing.”  
“Did you hear, beauty?” asked Lomion to his daughter while he took her from the arms of his father-in-law and uncle. “You're going to have an uncle to play with!”

An exclamation of tenderness escaped from several females. Aredhel smiled, looking at his eldest son with pride.

“That's my boy”, she murmured when Celegorm loaded her to bring her down from the table. Then his relatives came to congratulate them.

“We're going to have to enlarge the palace nursery”, Erestor commented thoughtfully.  
“I start making the plans?” suggested Rog.  
“What do you know about building a daycare”; shook his head Duilin.  
“The same thing you know about economics and yet, you spend hours with Prince Caranthir”; raised the thick eyebrows the one of the Hammer of Wrath, causing his friend to blush like scarlet and Erestor burst into laughter.

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

When Fëanor opened his eyes he only heard the stillness. It took a few minutes to recognize the cabin of Fingolfin's ship and he remembered how his brother would carry him there. With a smile on his lips, he sat on the bed, remembering that he had barely given Fingolfin time to leave him on the floor when he assaulted him with kisses and pushed him to the bed to ride on his hips. As if needing a reminder of what happened next, Fëanor felt a pain in his lower back and the inside of his thighs stung as he brushed them. Looking down, he found his thighs and abdomen marked by Fingolfin's teeth in more than one place. He was sure that he would have his husband's hands marked on his butt as well.

_His husband._ Fëanor savored the two words, caressing the ring on his finger. Fingolfin belonged to him at the end and nothing could separate them. For better or worse.

He looked for a robe and covered himself with it before leaving the cabin. Surely his partner had gone home to find something to eat.

When he came out onto the deck, Fëanor stopped, amazed. Around him, the blue of the lake stretched in all directions. The yacht was anchored in the middle of the lagoon, rocking gently. Fëanor laughed.

“What's so funny?”

He turned to see Fingolfin standing on an extended blanket on the deck. Bare-chested, the once-king of the Noldor was basking in the morning sun.

“You kidnapped me”, Fëanor said, going to meet him.  
“We're on our honeymoon”, his partner corrected, entangling a hand in his loose hair.  
“ I love that you have kidnapped me”, raised one eyebrow the elder and bent to kiss him in the mouth, voluptuously.  
“Mhm ... wait”, Fingolfin stopped him when they started losing control. “I have something to give you.”

Standing up, he ran to the cabin. Fëanor followed him with his eyes and then raised his face to the sun, enjoying the cool breeze. It was a perfect day.

Fingolfin quickly returned and, sitting next to him, took his hand to put something on his wrist.

Fëanor looked at the bracelet, amazed. He slid his fingertip through the engravings and traced the lines of black pearls.

“My pearls”, he smiled. “You made it.”  
“With a lot of work”, admitted Fingolfin and handed him the other bracelet while giving him his own hand.  
“They are beautiful”, declared Fëanor after putting his own to his husband. “You are an artist, Nolvo.”  
“No. I'm just in love. How did you know I made them?”  
“They have your seal. I know your work. I know the way your hands and your mind work, " he explained, sliding his thumb along the inside of Fingolfin's wrist.

Fingolfin followed the path of the fingers on his skin until his breathing stirred. The next second, Fëanor was on him, pushing him to the ground, placing himself between his legs, devouring him with his kisses and undressing him with his hands.

Fingolfin put his arms around his neck and arched his back when Fëanor's sex penetrated him with one thrust.

“You're never going to get tired of this?” he asked, panting, moving to the impulse of the thrusts.  
“Never”, declared Fëanor fiercely. “I will never have enough of you.”

With a ragged laugh, Fingolfin released his mind, dropping the ice and diamond barriers in one fell swoop.

Fëanor roared as he felt the contact in his fëa. Immediately, he responded in the same way, stripping his soul and intertwining it with his husband's.

By the way their essences mingled it seemed that the Avari were right and that in the Imperishable Flame, _they two had been one._

 

__//______//_______//________//________//__

 

“We should stop looking at these tapestries”, said Námo, with a frown. “I begin to feel like a voyeur.”  
“It is our job to observe the tapestries”, Vairë replied with a carefree tone and taking a few steps, stopped in front of the tapestry where the scene was repeated in which Fingolfin lifted Fëanor in his arms to take him to the boat. “What do you plan to do with the three copies of this one that you have?”  
“One I'll put in my office. Another one I will give to Findekáno: that boy pleases me.”  
“And the third?” raised an eyebrow his wife.  
“I'll send it to Manwë: somehow he has to find out about the marriage, right?”  
“Namurazhkaz!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Namurazhkaz: my personal version of valarin name for Námo.


	37. Extra Bonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write a little more about the Valar. Especially Námo.

“Unacceptable! Intolerable! The crime should not go unpunished! It is our sacred duty, as guardians of this world, to curb the sinful behaviors of the Children of Eru.”

 

Hardly, Eru’s Children would have recognized the sweet and kind Master of Dreams in the creature that raged and gesticulated furiously in the middle of the Ring of Doom. The always white features of Irmo were covered with blue and red veins that resembled fissures in his porcelain-like skin, which would burst from one moment to the next.

“Irmo”, said Oromë, taking the floor when the Vala of dreams and visions stopped to take a breath, “it is not in our functions to control the lives of the elves ...”  
“But we must show them the path of righteousness! Incest, Oromë! We are talking about one of the most vilified crimes of all races!”  
“Not all.”

All eyes were fixed on who spoke.

Comfortably sprawled on his throne, Námo looked at his fingernails dyed black with apparent disinterest in the debate that was taking place around him.

“What do you mean, Námo?” Manwë asked, his white eyebrows knitting barely perceptible.

“Huh?” the alluded one raised the face, as if he did not know which was the question. “Ah! Incest, yes. I said that some people have practiced it as a political resource. Without going very far, in several human cultures it has been used to guarantee that the inheritance right remains within the family: cousins with cousins, brothers with sisters ... it has been a method to reinforce the 'family union' and guarantee that the inheritance remains in the family.”

“Humans do that?” Vána asked, opening her eyes with interest.  
“Not all. Many do consider incest a crime and a sin; but certainly ...”

“Humans have been tainted by the evil of Morgoth Bauglir!” erupted Irmo, interrupting his older brother. “What you just said only confirms that what has happened is a crime that cannot go unpunished.”

“Honestly, I do not understand why the uproar “, shrugged Námo.  
“Do not you understand, Námo?” Varda asked, with a soft tone.

The god of death turned slightly in her direction. Actually, he had never understood why the Iluvatar’s Children insisted that she was the epitome of beauty; from his point of view, Nessa, Vána or Uinen deserved that title with greater justice.

“The issue of incest”, said Námo tiredly, “is that can produce degenerate descendants due to a genetic issue. It's not like this pair was going to father children, right?”

A nervous laugh erupted near him and everyone noticed Nessa, who covered her mouth with one hand.

“Sorry”, apologized the youngest of the Valier. “I just imagined Fëanor been pregnant.  
“Why not Fingolfin?” Vána suggested, frowning thoughtfully.  
“I can’t imagine that male with a swollen belly”, Vairë opened her eyes wide, as if in her mind she tried to create the image.  
“It’d be a precious baby the child of those two”, Yavanna sighed, in a low voice.

“Can we concentrate?” Manwë intervened, closing his eyes and opening them again with a sigh.  
“Námo is right in what he is saying”, commented Aulë, with his arms crossed over his chest. “Those two are not going to have children, so ...”  
“To condone this crime would be to validate it!” Irmo shouted again. “Others would follow this example. We have already been too benevolent with the deviant behaviors of the House of Finwë. Itarildë and Lómion, Findekáno and Nelyafinwë, Turcafinwë and Irissë ... and now Fëanáro and Nolofinwë! Brothers! Bred by the same father! And all their family has shown their approval publicly! Even some who are not family! The shamelessness of the Finwions spreads like a cancer that corrodes the foundations of society and decorum ...”  
“Agh, Irmo!” Namo exclaimed, covering his pointy blue ears. “You already caused me migraine.”

For a moment, Irmo watched his brother, disoriented. Suddenly, the understanding illuminated his blue without a defined pupil eyes. 

“Since when do you know?” he demanded.  
“How do you say?” Námo blinked, pretending not to understand.  
“You did know. You knew what was happening between them and you did not communicate it to the rest of us. You are an accomplice of ...”  
“Námo!” Oromë complained, hurt. “I thought we were friends.”  
“At what time did I make you believe such a blunder with my behavior, Lord of the Woods?” the questioner grimaced, squinting.  
“Uh ... all those years that we hunt together to Melkor’s maiar”, considered Oromë, confused.

Námo considered his words for a moment and then, hissed between his teeth.

“My mistake. Why are you bringing it up now?”  
“I’d have liked to go to that wedding!” exclaimed the Vala de los Forests.  
"It is said in Tirion that it was an event," Nienna pointed out softly, without looking up from her hands clasped in her lap.  
“It was”, confirmed Vairë, with a half-smile.  
“ Oh oh!” Vána waved in her seat. “Can I go see your tapestries, Vairë?”

“Does not anyone care about the seriousness of the situation?” Irmo was bewildered, drawing attention back to him. “Two brothers have contracted marriage publicly -and you are only interested in the show? At least Findekáno and Nelyafinwë had the decency to request our judgment as to their union; but these two ...”

“Technically, 'these two' “, stressed Námo; “are not brothers. Both were dead for more than fifteen millennia and received new bodies. Yes, they were built in the image of their original hroar; but the same blood does not flow in their veins. Technically, they were reconstructed by me and my maiar, not begotten by Finwë. Even in the fantastic case that one of the two was able to conceive, there would be no danger that their offspring were creatures with any deficiency since blood ties do not persist between them. Biologically and legally speaking, in the absence of blood ties between them there is no sin of incest.”

A murmur of approval rose among the Maiar gathered around the seating ring.

Irmo gave his elder brother a look full of anger and resentment. Námo ignored him, directing his attention to Manwë, who was leaning his chin on his intertwined hands as he seemed to reflect on the Judge’s arguments.

“Forget, Námo, that for the elves the true essence of their being is their fëar and not their material bodies.”

The Vala of Death narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked to the queen of the Ainur. Varda stood majestically on her throne and waved her arms to wave the wide sleeves of her night blue dress.

“As for all creatures, my lady”, said Estë, raising her voice for the first time since the beginning of the assembly.  
“That's right, Estë”, the queen smiled without the smile reaching her crystal clear eyes. “Therefore, Fëanáro and Nolofinwë are still brothers before the Law of Ilúvatar, and as such, their relationship is a violation that must be punished. Our generous sovereign understands that the bonds of the spirit cannot be undone and that as brothers they were born, as brothers they will remain beyond the end of Arda. Unless the Souls’ Keeper has found a way to remake the spirits.”

All eyes turned to focus on Námo, who did not worry in the least. Holding Varda's gaze, he said calmly:

“As you present it, Varda Elentári, I accept the decision of our sovereign and as Judge of the Valar, I will dictate the destiny of sinners.”  
“What?!” Oromë jumped, standing up.

Ignoring the impulsive behavior of his ‘friend’ and the exclamations that sprang up from all sides, Námo stood up, assuming his most formal attitude and crossing his arms over his chest, said clearly:

“I, Judge of Arda, judge you guilty of the sin of incest, Manwë Súlimo and Varda Elentári, and I condemn you ...”  
“ What do you think you're doing?” Demanded Manwë, jumping to his feet.  
“What your wife just told me to do. As she herself has shown us, spiritual bonds are the ones that have real value. Our spirits and powers come all equally from the very essence of Eru Ilúvatar, therefore, we are all brothers and as such, incestuous. Now, if you allow me, I have a trial to dictate.” Readjusted his position and started again, with a solemn voice: “I condemn you ...”

“Stop!” ordered Manwë. “You have made your point clear.”

“I still have more to say”, Námo half-smiled, like the cat that ate the cream. “If the first elves awoke in Cuiviénen without a father or mother to claim them, all equally Sons of Ilúvatar, should not they be considered brothers among themselves? Would not we then be assuring that the entire elven race is a sinner? It is the spirit, after all, that dictates our ties to be taken into account. Well, let me tell you that we cannot cut the tie that binds the souls of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë: the name of Ilúvatar has been invoked among them and their union has been blessed. Who among us will go against an oath made in the name of Our Father?”

“None”, said Tulkas, frowning.

“It was a rhetorical question; but, thank you for your confirmation, Tulkas”, Námo rolled his eyes. “Now that we have clarified this issue, can we return to our affairs? Or are we going to discuss whether we agree with multiple marriages?”

“Have these been approved too?” Vána blinked, interested. “I have to go look at those tapestries, definitely.”  
“We have”, Yavanna self-invited, also intrigued.

Manwë waved his hand, dismissing the Valar and preparing to turn in the direction of his wife, who remained petrified - as if she did not overcome the shock of having escaped from a trial of Námo - when Irmo jumped into the center of the Ring, furious.

“What do you gain from this, Námo?” He demanded, pointing at his brother with a finger. “I do not know what your plan is; but I will not allow you to pervert our kingdom. You've been hiding the crimes of the Finwions and their allies for too long. First, you advocated the release of that criminal when it was foreseen that he would never leave your Halls. It was there that everything started, right? It was under _your protection_ that this immorality that stains the light of Aman began ..."

“Yes, Irmo”, answered Námo, going ahead until facing his brother, forcing him to back down to be able to see him in the face. “As you say, it was under _my protection_ that Fëanor and Fingolfin were reunited. It was under _my protection_ that they made peace. It was under _my protection_ that they remembered how much they had loved each other once. Yes, I advocated the reincarnation of Fëanor. Melkor was released even against my judgment; does Fëanor deserve less mercy than the brother who betrayed us again and again? You advocated the release of Melkor, remember? I've seen more clearly than you: Fëanor will not fail Fingolfin again. You say I've hidden the crimes of the Finwions. No, brother: I have protected them from obtuse minds like yours. Finwion is also your favorite, Finarfin, and yet, you ignored how he lost his way and fell into madness. You, the Master of Visions, do not foresee how low he would be dragged by those who take pride in worshiping us as deities. Deities? Pft! Shame should make us elves trust that we are able to protect them when we can barely maintain our material forms. Yes, I saw from the beginning the path that opened before Fëanor and Fingolfin and I let them follow it to their liking. I, personally, prefer to conjure weddings and marital disputes than to cast curses on desperate people.”

“You're ... you're saying that you propitiated that relationship”, Irmo stammered, taking a step back in spite of himself. “You propitiated it even though you knew it was a crime against ...”

“I propitiated it? Who gave Finarfin the visions of his two brothers being lovers?” mocked the eldest of the Fëanturi. "When you put those visions in his head, were not you the one who wrote the fate, little brother? I just let destiny take its course.”  
“You could change it. If you wanted to do the right thing -if you really were faithful to our Father's word, you ...”  
“Before you keep talking, kid,” interrupted Námo and a thick, icy mist emanated from his material form, spreading through the place, while his silver eyes turned spirals of fire; “Remember that I am your older brother. Second, although everyone seems to forget it too easily, I am one of the Aratar and you are not. Third, I'm the goddamned god of death and I do not give a damn your opinion. That said, think about how you're going to end that sentence if you do not want to show off a fána with an indecently split face.”

“Namurahzkaz!” Nienna exclaimed, getting up.  
“I do not give a damn what you say neither, Fuihinne”, he said to his sister, shrugging.

For a second, even Varda showed surprise at Námo's response to his sister: generally, the Soul’s Keeper was almost affectionate with Nienna. And it was **almost** the keyword.

Nienna, on the other hand, did not show offense and with a shrug, replied:

“I was just going to tell you that you should be less modest and let the rest of our brothers know your plans.”  
“Excuse me?” raised an eyebrow Námo, turning in front of her.  
“If you explain yourself, I'm convinced that Irmo would not be such a head and would understand your reasons.”  
“Explain?” repeated the youngest of the Fëanturi, turning towards Nienna to avoid the burning gaze of his older brother. “What explanation can ...?”  
“The union of the two most powerful elves can only result in an advantage in our favor when the Final Battle arrives.”  
Nienna's tone left no doubt of her intention.

“Nienna”, said Manwë, slowly, “are you saying that Námo ...?”

“My older brother sees the future even before we dream it. He sees possibilities and ways. It is his gift ... and his curse. If he, in his immense wisdom, saw the only way in which Fëanor and Fingolfin would always remain united, how could we not take that opportunity to secure victory? Already today, despite what many think of his love choices, Fingolfin brings together the largest number of faithful among the elves: Noldor, Sindar, Avari, Teleri, Vanyar ... seek to be his allies or accept his friendship. Fëanor has put his cleverness, the greatest among the elves, at the service of his people ... only for the love of his husband, in an end. As enemies, we have all seen what these two are capable of causing. Námo has only let history follow the most beneficial course for all.”

Nienna raised her almond-shaped violet eyes to the king of Arda and smiled softly, as if painted.

“Nobody but my older brother could have devised a plan so ... interesting”, she concluded with sweetness; “Do not you think so, Mânawenûz?”  
“It's a great plan”, affirmed Oromë, nodding energetically. “Do not you think, Aulë?”  
“A magnificent project.” agreed the aforementioned, with emphasis.  
“I agree”, Ulmo intervened for the first time. “Much more effective than sending dreams and expecting them to be interpreted in the correct way. My congratulations, Námo.”  
“Eh ... thanks. I suppose”, the Judge made a face.  
“I suggest that in order to make sure that everything is going well”, Vana quickly suggested, “let's keep an eye on that family.”  
“Especially those two.”, Nessa supported it. “They must be our priority. Vána and I will keep an eye on them.”  
“Two eyes”, confirmed Vána.

 

“My Lord.”

Námo twisted his torso to observe the maia in front of him. He swore that somewhere he had seen that white, straight hair, those blue eyes and that slightly mocking expression ... Yeah! The guy who helped kick Mairon's ass ... uh ... Sauron. He was going to enjoy telling that bastard who he had seen that afternoon.

“Olórin”, responded with a casual tone. “Or do you prefer to be called by another of your names?”  
“Olórin is fine, my lord”, smiled the maia.  
“So, how can I help you, Olórin?”  
“Actually ... I went to pay my respects. Although I have always been close to your sister, I have never had much friction with the rest of the Valar and until now I have always considered you ... eh ... well, many maiar and elves have a wrong perception about you.”  
“Seriously?” He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”

Olórin watched him a moment before smiling more widely.

“I doubt Elves have seen you wearing leather.”  
“Yes they have; but many don’t remember it once they reincarnate. So, do you admire my sense of fashion, Mithrandir?”  
“I admire your insight, sir; plotting a whole romance that violates the laws to guarantee us all the possible advantages in the fight against our enemy.”

Namo lightly pressed his lips and looked beyond the maia, in the direction in which Nienna was conversing with Estë.

“My good maia”, he said, with a sigh, “my dear sister tends to believe me smarter than I really am.”  
“Your sister sees more than you suspect yourself, my lord”, mediated Olórin, with a mysterious tone.

The Vala looked once more at the figure of his sister and pursed his blue lips. What if Nienna was the one who was right and the union of Fingolfin and Fëanor did give them an advantage when it came to fighting? If so, they would end up discovering it. Before what many thought, unfortunately. Pity: those two deserved a long honeymoon. And others after them. Luckily, there would still be millennia of happiness. They had earned it.

“My sister always had a too sharp sight, Olórin”, agreed Námo and returning to pay attention to him, said in a less serious tone: “Speaking of another subject, would you like to acquire a beautiful tapestry? I'm sure Varda will not appreciate it being given to Manwë.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Mânawenûz: Manwë's valarin name. (This belongs to Tolkien, really).  
> * Fuihinne: my personal version of Nienna's valarin name.  
> * Olórin: quenya name of Gandalf. Mithrandir: the name elves gave him.
> 
> And... this is the end. Did you like it? No? Well, just let me know if you have time.   
> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!   
> (Now, back to work. That's it)


End file.
